


Free Folk to the Bone

by Jennie_D



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Jon Raised as a Wildling, F/M, Free Folk Jon, Gen, R Plus L Equals J, Warg Jon Snow, Wargs, Wildling Culture & Customs, Wildling Jon Snow, Wildlings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-07-08 19:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 59,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19874752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennie_D/pseuds/Jennie_D
Summary: Jon will admit he doesn’t know a lot of things. He doesn’t know who his parents are or what clan he was borne from. He doesn’t know what’s on the other side of The Wall, though he’s been itching to find out practically since he could walk. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever learn to be a proper warg, or if Mance will finally let him go raid kneeler villages with Tormund’s band this year.But he does know one thing; he’s Free Folk down to his bones.





	1. Prologue - The Kingsroad

_Promise me, Ned. Promise me…_

The words rang in Ned's mind as he rode up the Kingsroad. Every time he heard the babe fuss and cry in the wagon three horses behind him, the words rang louder still.

In the quiet of the early mornings, before their fellows stirred, Howland had offered suggestion after suggestion. The babe could be taken in as a bastard of House Reed, given to the nursemaid they’d found for him to be raised as her own son, left at an inn that was known to take good care of lost children. But in all of these suggestions, Ned could hear whispers reaching Robert. A new Reed bastard could seem suspicious, the nursemaid was young and might go tattling, those at the inn would remember the lords that dropped off a babe.

The best suggestion by far was that Ned raise the boy as his own bastard, in Winterfell. Ned Stark was, after all, one of the only people Robert Baratheon fully trusted, and Winterfell was far enough from the south that Robert would rarely take an interest in the goings on there. The child would be out of sight.

But still, Ned worried.

The babe had the Stark look now, but what if his eyes darkened to purple or his hair grew in white? What if the midwives at the Tower that had held his sister as she died spoke about what had happened there?

And what of his new wife Catelyn? In truth, Ned barely knew her. Could she be trusted with the identity of this child? Would she send ravens in the night to her father, her brother? Perhaps he could tell her the same story he told everyone else; that the child was his, that he had fathered a bastard. But it seemed a heavy secret to keep for a lifetime. He was not sure he could do it.

He wished his father was here. He would have known what to do.

These thoughts were circling round and round Ned’s head, so that he barely heard the cry of “STOP!” when it came. Howland had to call for his attention, only then did he pull the reins.

A spoke on one of the wagon wheels had broken; the traveling party would be delayed nearly half a day while it was repaired.

This only added to Ned’s anxieties. The Kingsroad was heavily trafficked, and a stop potentially meant more encounters with others taking this path. The fewer travelers they met on their journey up the Kingsroad, the fewer people to see the babe, the better.

Ned’s fears were confirmed only three hours later when a band of men from the Night’s Watch passed by. They were taking new recruits to the Wall, and seemed friendly enough, but the sight of new people made Ned’s heart jump.

Yet when the Black Brothers asked Ned if they could join him on the rest of the journey and keep their party company, what else could he say but aye? The Starks had maintained a good relationship with the Watch for thousands of generations, and they were traveling in the same direction. To say no would seem suspicious, and dangerous.

So after the wagon wheel was repaired and they continued onward, Ned tried his best to seem at ease. He answered questions about the war he’d just fought and talked idly about rebuilding the countryside. He listened to their stories about the Wall and fights with vicious Wildling raiders. Sometimes the Brothers would glance curiously at the child, but none of them asked any questions.

Then one night about a week after the two parties had joined, one of the men in black began telling a tale of his own childhood, how he had been born and raised at the Wall. And a new idea began to form in Ned’s head.

The Night’s Watch did occasionally take children to raise as their own. The ancient order had minimal contact with the rest of Westeros. For most in the south, the Wall held no interest and few ever visited it.

There would be no prying eyes, no questions.

To be sure, it might be a bleak place to grow up, but it would be safe. And that was what Ned had promised Lyanna. He’d keep the boy safe.

Soon, they were only two days outside Winterfell, and the Night’s Watch was planning to split off and head for Castle Black the next morning. If Ned was going to make this choice, he had to make it now.

As they made camp for the evening, he steeled himself and approached the Black Brother who’d been raised in Castle Black. He was plucking at a lute, preparing for a night of bawdy songs.

“It’s a good evening, isn’t it?” Ned began in a voice he hoped was natural. The Black Brother nodded, said “Yes milord,” and returned to the work of tuning his instrument.

Ned cleared his throat and began again.

“I wonder if I might have your ear for a moment.”

The Brother stopped, stood, and looked Ned in the eye.

“What can I do for you milord?”

“Well,” Ned was rubbing his neck, hoping he didn’t look too nervous. “I was listening to you talk a fortnight ago about being raised by the Watch.”

“Yes, I was milord.”

“During the war, we found an orphaned babe in a village that had been destroyed. I've been trying to find a place for this poor child, and I think the Night's Watch might be a good solution.”

“Really milord? That’s a tragedy. Which village?”

The question was completely fair, but with horror Ned realized he’d not thought how to answer it. After a pregnant pause he stuttered, “A - a village in the Riverlands. I did not catch the name.”

The man looked doubtful, but still nodded. “Aye, we can take the babe. We’ve raised many over the years. Orphans, wildling children, bastard sons of lords…”

The man let this hang in the air, and Ned found himself fuming. So, it was still to be assumed that he had fathered a bastard and was dishonorably trying to pawn it off on the Watch. In normal times he would never have stood for the insult of this implication.

But these were not normal times. Ned needed the babe to be safe. Let this lowborn Brother think he’d ruined his honor. The gossip of the Night’s Watch never traveled far.

Ned let his anger go in a breath and asked, “You’ll take him then?”

“Of course. Can I see him?”

“I’ll take you to him now.”

Ned and the Brother traveled over to where Wylla, the nursemaid, cradled the child. The Brother took the babe in his arms and rocked him. His eyes were soft and he cooed at the tiny face, and Ned knew he’d made a sound choice.

“Does he have a name?”

“Jon.” Ned answered. Let the boy have that from him at least.

“We’ll bring Jon with us on our journey tomorrow.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” Ned turned to walk away, then paused and returned.

“If you ever need anything, anything at all for the babe, just call for House Stark. And…” Ned paused and wordlessly stared at the ground for a moment too long.

He took a pendant from his pocket. It was steel forged in the shape of a little wolf; their father had commissioned it for Lyanna on her 13th nameday. Ned had taken it from her body and intended to place it on her statue in the crypts.

But he couldn’t leave the child with nothing. Ned knew this was a stupid choice, it was a tie to Lyanna that could bring Robert’s wrath down on all of them if it was discovered. But the boy would grow up nameless, without any knowledge of who his family was. He at least deserved one tie to his House.

“Give him this. It was his mother’s.” Ned placed the necklace in the Black Brother’s hand, trying not to feel like a piece of him was being torn away.

The Brother took it gently. “I’ll give it to him milord.”

“Thank you. You’ve done me a great favor my boy-”

“It’s Mance, milord.”

“Mance then. Let me know if there is anything I can do to repay you.”

“Of course milord.” The Brother, Mance’s, eyes were too sympathetic, too knowing. Ned could not be here anymore.

Ned nodded tightly, then turned away and walked quickly so the man wouldn’t see the tears on his face.

The boy would be safe. It would be worth it if Lyanna’s boy was safe.

The next morning, Ned Stark hung back as the Night’s Watch set out. He watched the child leave from a distance.

After they were gone, he spent a long while looking at the mist in the hills, then turned his horse towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, this is going to be an au where Jon is raised as a wildling. I'll be honest, this fic was inspired by a time I ran Jon Snow in wildling costume pictures through the youth FaceApp filter, and it was adorable. 
> 
> https://tormundjonthings.tumblr.com/post/186321639513/jon-raised-by-the-free-folk-au-year-298-ac-jon


	2. The Wolf

Jon crouched low; bow at the ready.

The elk herd was unaware, digging through the fresh fallen snow to find the last of the autumn grass. The largest of them was three times Jon’s size. He knew if he could bring it down, the clan would eat well that night.

He shifted, aiming his arrow at the large elk’s heart. The elk just needed to move a bit closer...a bit closer... _there!_

Jon released the arrow and it buried itself in the great beast’s leg. The animal let out a bellow of pain, and the herd scattered, their injured fellow struggling to stagger off after them.

Jon quickly nocked another arrow and let it fly. This one hit home; hitting the animal's side and sending the elk crashing to the ground. With the rest of the herd quickly abandoning their fallen brother, Jon emerged from his hiding space and made his way over to the dying beast. It’s blood painted the snow red, heat steaming off the cold ground. The animal was groaning in agony, so Jon quickly took a bone knife from his furs and slit its throat, ending the pain. He then knelt down and began to prep the carcass for transport.

It would be hard work to drag this meat on a sled all the way back to the clan’s camp, but it would be worth it to ease the gnawing hunger in his belly. Winter was coming, and they were trying to save their stores for the worst of it.

Though if Mance was right, hunger would not be what killed them all that winter.

Jon shuddered and tried his best not to think of death and ice and cold blue eyes. He’d glimpsed the cold gods once, and he hoped never to see them again.

He broke down the elk carcass quickly, occasionally glancing towards the faint shadow of the Wall. He was more than a week's journey from its base, but Jon knew that vicious Crows could still be lurking in the wood, waiting to gut Wildling boys. If Mance were here, he would have lectured Jon about hunting so close to the Wall, how he should always go north to hunt. But Jon knew the elk herd had been heading this way, and a good hunter followed the prey where it led.

Besides, Jon said to himself, puffing his chest up, he wasn’t afraid of any stinking _Crow_.

Maybe if Mance came back from his travels soon, he’d let Jon go over the Wall with Tormund’s band this year.

Jon wanted more than anything to climb the Wall and go raiding. Raiders were brave and strong and provided for the clans. They liberated supplies from greedy fat southern lords and brought them back to the people. Jon had heard stories about the adventures of raiders since childhood, he couldn’t wait to go. And Tormund _wanted_ his company. Jon knew for a fact Tormund had asked Mance if Jon could go with them last year.

But apparently Mance had said no, and Tormund respected Mance too much to go against his wishes.

Jon was a man of roughly eighteen years, he was no child. Folk four years his junior had climbed the Wall. Tormund himself had been only fifteen the first time he went over.

It seemed unfair. Jon was a man of the Free Folk, and he should have been able to do as he pleased. But still, he didn’t want to disappoint Mance. Mance had, after all, raised him.

And right now, pleasing Mance meant staying with the Forest Clans while Mance visited the Cave People. It meant staying behind and working with Orell to train Jon’s warg magic.

In truth, Jon was supposed to be in lessons with Orell right now. But he hated his time with the elder warg. Orell was stuck up, and smug, and seemed to lord it over Jon every time he failed to enter the mind of an animal. Orell might be a good warg, but he was a terrible teacher. It wasn’t fair, Jon thought. Orell had his eagle, but Jon had yet to find an animal to bond with, he hadn’t found anything that felt right.

Jon knew the Free Folk needed wargs. He knew he had a great gift from the gods and he should embrace it.

But that morning he’d heard Orell laughing with some others about how Jon had nearly shat himself trying to enter the mind of a rabbit. Worst of all, he’d called Jon a “southern boy” who could never be a true warg. So Jon had run, grabbed his bow, and set out hunting instead.

Jon didn’t know if he was southern. True, Mance was a southerner, a former Crow flown free. He knew that “Jon” was a southern name.

He knew that he wasn’t Mance’s son, the man had told him that much. But Mance refused to tell Jon more, treating his parentage as if it were some great and terrible secret.

“You’ll know when you’re ready to know,” Mance would always say. Jon privately thought Mance would never believe him ready.

Jon knew this shouldn’t bother him; plenty of the Free Folk had no idea who their parents were. Ygritte, his closest friend, always rolled her eyes when Jon started talking about it. Said she had no clue who her father was and you didn't see her moping about it. Said Jon was brooding over nothing.

But Jon hated it when people took him for some southern Kneeler.

Jon’s hand went to his wolf necklace, the only thing he had of his mother. It was a pretty little thing, wild and sharp, made of fancy forged steel. When Jon was small, he liked to think she was a shieldmaiden from one of the mysterious mountain clans to the far north; that someday she would find him and teach him to swing one of their fierce steel swords.

And then he’d be able to raid with the best of them. If he could prove himself as a raider, no one would call him southern again.

Jon was lost in thought and started when he heard a crack in the wood. Silently, he crouched behind a tree, trying not to let his heart pound.

If there was a Crow here, they’d see the blood from his kill and come find him. Maybe they’d shoot him like they shot Uja in the forest last year, or they’d run him through like they did to Vorn the year before, or take him back to their castle of tortures to die in a cell like Wise Mother Majar had when Jon was just a boy.

He heard another crack and flocked an arrow, searching for black shadows in the snow. Then another horrible thought claimed him.

Maybe it was the cold gods coming for him, to raise him as one of their dead slaves of ice. If it was, there was nothing Jon could do, there was no saving him.

Jon tried to send the dark thoughts away and strained his ears for any sound. He was surprised to hear a small whine; out of place in this part of the forest. Cautiously, he peeked out from behind his tree.

He saw nothing, but still heard the whine carried through the wind. It sounded like another animal in pain.

Jon knew he was not out of danger; even an injured shadowcat or wolf could still be a fearsome foe. But he couldn’t let a creature suffer in pain and misery, not if he could help it.

He made his way quietly through the trees, listening, following the sad small sound. Soon, a clearing opened up, and at the base of a weirwood tree, under its blood red leaves, a little ball of fur was curled in the snow.

Jon lowered his bow and walked towards the tree. The whining stopped, as though the small creature was too tired to continue, and a small nose poked out from the snow.

Jon knelt down a few feet from the little creature, took off a sheepskin mitten, and held his hand out for the creature to sniff. The little thing raised its small head, stood up and shook the snow from its fur, then limped over to lick Jon’s fingers.

It wasn’t just a wolf pup, it was a white direwolf pup, no more than four months old. Jon was slightly awed; direwolves were rarely separated from their young, but Jon saw no other prints in the snow. And this was the wrong part of the forest for a direwolf, they usually hunted much farther north. Yet if the tiny pawprints in the snow were to be believed, this sweet creature had come from the south.

“How'd you get here, sweet thing?” Jon asked. The pup did not answer, just pushed against Jon’s hand, asking for a head rub. Jon obliged the little beast, and it limped up to crawl into his lap.

The pup had been traveling a long way alone, that much was certain. His paws were stiff and frozen, and one looked like it was bleeding. What was Jon to do with this creature? He couldn’t leave it here in pain. Should he put the sweet pup out of its misery?

Jon almost reached for his bone knife, but the absolute wrongness of that action overcame him. No, he couldn’t harm this wolf. He could never harm this wolf.

The pup suddenly met his gaze with red eyes and Jon came to a quick decision. He would take the beast home with him to camp. Jon reached for his wolf necklace again, feeling the familiar steel, and knew this was the right thing.

Some might balk at bringing a wolf to their door, but Jon somehow knew it would do them no harm. After all, the pup smelled sweet, like thistle and pine needles.

Besides, Jon thought as he carried the white wolf back towards his sled, he had found the beast at the base of a weirwood. Perhaps this was a blessing from the gods, an omen of good times to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghost traveled ridiculously far to find his sweet boy.


	3. Camp

Jon smelled the cookfires long before the camp came into view.

It had been slow going with both the elk carcass and the little wolf pup. The sun was nearly below the horizon when he reached the clearing where the Forest Clan made their home. The camp seemed busier than Jon expected for this hour, but still he brought the elk to Harma and the old man patted Jon on the cheek in gratitude.

“You’re a bit late with it, but we’ll have time to make something of this. The gods sent you just in time; we were looking for a fresh kill for the feast tonight.”

This took Jon by surprise.

“A feast? Why?”

“You haven’t heard? Mance is back from the west, and he’s brought some chieftains with him.”

Jon panicked a little. He would be happy to see Mance; if Jon was reading the moon correctly, they’d been parted for nearly five months. He just wished it hadn’t been on a day when he’d run from Orell. The older warg would be sure to complain, and then Jon would face a lecture about responsibility and training his gift and listening to his elders.

“You find a new pet?”

Jon looked up; Harma was pointing at the large lump wriggling under Jon’s furs. Jon opened his coat and took the pup into his arms, holding him out to sniff at Harma’s fingers.

“He’s a direwolf I think; I found him in the woods at the base of a heart tree.”

Harma drew his hand back. “Careful Jon. I’ve known some that’ve made pets of wolves, but a direwolf can’t be tamed.”

“He won’t hurt anyone.”

“And how do you know?”

“I just...he won’t. He needs me.”

Harma looked at Jon hard.

“Base of a heart tree you said? Might be you’re a warg after all. That foul teacher of yours might be finally be happy for once. Go on, find Mance and say hello, I’ll take care of this carcass.”

Jon thanked him, then set off towards the longhouse in the center of the camp. Mance was probably there, stepping into fresh furs and cleaning off after the journey. But before he could reach the door, another voice called out to him.

“Where've you been all day, little boy? You leave without taking me along?”

He turned and saw Ygritte leaning against a tree, grinning.

“We’re the same age, don’t call me little boy.”

“How can I not when you act like a boy? After all, you ran away from home today.”

“I didn’t run away from home, I went on a hunt. I shot an elk.”

“Oh brave man, shooting an elk, I’ve never heard of such an impossible feat.”

Jon rolled his eyes and Ygritte laughed.

“Just tell me the next time you go on a hunt Jon, I’ve been itching to get out of this camp all day. I’d rather spend a day hunting than endlessly chopping winter wood.”

“We’ll go hunting day after next,” Jon promised.

“I’ll take you up on that. What’ve you got there? That another one of your fearsome kills?”

Jon held the pup out to her. It nosed at her hand and licked her fingers.

“He likes you!”

“You still haven’t answered me, what is he?”

“He’s a direwolf I found in the wood.”

Ygritte drew back.

“Are you actually mad? You want to send an angry direwolf mother down on the whole camp cause you stole one of her pups? I swear, you see something cute and you take all leave of your senses little boy.”

“I’m not a little boy. And he has no mother.”

“How’d you know that?”

“I think it’s a warg sense. I think we were meant to find each other.”

Ygritte came close again and rubbed the pup’s ears. Jon felt strangely pleased by this.

“I thought just yesterday you were telling me ‘this warg shite is stupid and I hate it.’”

That snapped Jon out of the feeling quickly.

“I wasn’t!” he protested.

“Yes you were! It’s all you were talking about! ‘My name is Jon and I have a wonderous magical gift but I hate it and it’s boring and I just want to be a raider!’”

“I don’t hate it! And it’s not boring." Ygritte looked at Jon is disbelief. "You spent so much time whinging-"

"It’s just boring the way Orell teaches it," Jon backtracked hurriedly.

Ygritte closed her mouth and nodded. “Fair enough, won’t argue with you there. Fucker can be a bit dry. That why you ran out on him today? He’s been grousing bout it to anyone who’ll listen.”

Jon looked down. “I just thought hunting would be more useful.”

“Don’t worry about it to me. I don’t mind if you ditch Orell. Just let me know when you’re doing it so I can join you.” She jerked her head towards the longhouse.

“You goin in to see dear old dad?”

“Mance isn’t my father."

Ygritte rolled her eyes hard as if to say, 'I know that, you shit!'

Jon cleared his throat and continued. "But yeah.”

“Let me know if he lets anything slip. I heard he and the chieftains have called a council.”

“A council? What for?”

“I don’t know, little boy, that’s why I asked you to tell me if he lets anything slip.”

Jon shuffled his feet a bit sheepishly. Ygritte took pity on him and touched his arm, catching his eye.

“You and your new wolf’ll come find me by the fire tonight, yeah?”

Jon nodded and Ygritte grinned.

“Well then, I’ll see you tonight little boy.”

“Don’t call me that!” Jon cried to her retreating back. She just laughed and shook her head in response.

Jon turned back to the longhouse, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

As always, the longhouse was warm and comforting. The fire in the center bathed everything in a cozy orange light. Sounds of chatter and laughter filled the air. Jon put his new pup down next to him and searched for Mance’s face in the dim ligh-

A large furry blur of arms and legs enveloped Jon in a giant hug. Jon staggered a bit, catching his breath, then laughed when he saw who it was.

“Tormund!”

“Little wolf!” Tormund exclaimed in his booming voice, sweeping Jon off his feet and spinning him around in a circle. “So good to see you, it’s been an age!”

Tormund finally let go and Jon took stock of him, grinning widely. It had been more than a year since he’d last laid eyes on Tormund. His beard was a bit longer and there was a new scar across his temple, but he looked as cheery as ever.

“Admiring my new battle marks, little wolf? It’s quite the tale, but I need proper time to tell it. I’ll spin it for you by the firelight tonight.”

“I can’t wait to hear it. Did you get it from some great southern monster’s sword?”

“Quite the opposite. This mark was gained in the battle of love, little wolf.” Jon looked at Tormund incredulously and the older man laughed. “Let me give you a hint to stew on; her name was Sheila and she had _claws_.”

Jon shook his head, laughing. “Oh this will be one of your tall tales then?”

“You wound me little wolf, every word I’ve ever said is truth! I swear by the gods!”

Tormund winked and Jon laughed and swept him up in another hug.

“But truly, how were the autumn raids?”

“Not too bad, got a few supplies that should help us head off winter. Among some...other things.”

Jon pulled out of the hug and looked at Tormund questioningly. “What other things? Does this have anything to do with the council you called?”

Tormund sighed, “Jon-”

“Because you can tell me, I’m ready to hear it. After all, I’m only six years your junior.”

“It’s not your age, little wolf. We want to wait to tell everyone tomorrow at council, otherwise nasty rumors might spread.”

“So you don’t trust me. I promise-”

“Enough of this little wolf. You know that I trust you. This is just something I have to keep to myself, as a chieftain. You’ll know tomorrow, like everyone else."

Jon looked down a bit.

“It's just...I’m ready. I’m ready to know things, I’m ready to raid. I feel like everyone else is growing up. You’re already a chief of the Antler River, and I’m still stuck here.”

Tormund cupped Jon’s cheek affectionately. Jon looked up into his kind eyes.

“I'm a minor chieftain at best. And life is not a race little wolf! I promise you, you’ll be in my raiding party soon enough. And as a fully fledged warg too! Imagine how important you’ll be to us then!”

Jon was not quite satisfied by this, but he smiled and nodded all the same. Tormund gave him a small smile back, then glanced down to the pup licking at his boots.

“What’s this little sweetling then?”

Jon scooped the wolf up. He was wriggling excitedly and began licking Jon’s face.

“I found him in the woods today. He’s a direwolf.”

“I’ve never seen a direwolf so tame. He likes you. Have you bonded to this one?”

“I’m not sure. But maybe. I think so.” Jon was growing increasingly pleased at this possibility; he liked the idea of being connected to this wolf pup, of hunting beside him.

Tormund laughed.

“Well, the little wolf found a little wolf! What good luck! Let’s drink to that!”

“Maybe later,” came a voice from the shadows. “It’s a bit early in the night.”

Jon looked over to the far side of the longhouse, and saw Mance emerging from a circle of chieftains. They were all still deep in conversation, but Mance walked towards Jon, his eyes fond.

Jon tried to be strong and stoic in front of the chieftains, tried to remember that he was cross with Mance about being left in the camp and nervous about what Orell would tell him. But after a few moments, Jon’s strength failed him. He handed the pup to Tormund, ran the few steps between them, and threw himself into the arms of the man who had raised him.

“It’s good to see you, boy,” Mance said softly, his hand on the back of Jon's head. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” whispered Jon.

Mance held Jon tighter for a moment, then pulled away. Mance looked at him, hands at Jon’s shoulders.

“You’ve become even more a man since I left.” But then his voice grew stern. “Though I hear you’ve been neglecting your lessons.”

Jon looked at his furred boots. So Orell had snitched already. “Only today. And I found something important.”

“Yes, I heard you telling Tormund.”

“This is an unusually sweet pup, I’ll say that much!” Tormund exclaimed as he put his finger in the wolf’s mouth and let the beast bite on it softly.

Mance grinned and looked back to Jon, “So you think you’ll bond to a direwolf, eh? Be a wolf warg?”

Jon nodded. Mance’s eyes filled with something that looked like pride, but there was sadness behind them too. He looked to Jon’s wolf pendant. Quietly, almost to himself, Mance said, “Seems appropriate.”

Jon was about to ask what that meant, but Mance quickly changed the subject. “So, we’re to feast tonight! I hear there’s elk.”

“Yes, I brought it down.”

“Did you! Well done little wolf!” cried Tormund.

“Yes, he’s quite the hunter.” Mance looked genuinely pleased and Jon grinned at the praise.

The wolf began to wriggle and fuss in Tormund’s arms. “Let me take him.” Tormund handed the animal back to Jon and the pup calmed instantly.

“See, look at that! A bond already!” Tormund exclaimed.

The cheery mood was abruptly broken when a man Jon didn’t recognize burst into the room and walked over to the group of chieftains. They spoke in hushed low voices, and Jon struggled to pick out the words. He heard, “Hornfoot” and “village” and “attack” before Mance clapped Jon on the shoulder and guided him out of the room.

“Let’s go help cook up that elk, eh? See you soon, Tormund.”

The large man nodded, suddenly serious, and left to join the chieftains.

After Mance and Jon left the longhouse, Jon shrugged out from under Mance’s hand.

“You didn’t have to make me leave. You can trust me.”

“I know boy, I do trust you. And you’ll find out along with everyone else at council tomorrow. We just don’t want anyone to panic.”

Jon froze at this, and Mance looked as if he wished he could suck the word back into his mouth.

“Panic? Why should we panic? What’s the council tomorrow about?”

The older man sighed. “Nothing good boy, nothing good.”

Mance took Jon by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes.

“But I promise you boy, whatever comes, whatever we face, we’ll face it together, as Free Folk. And if we do that, we can get through it. Alright?”

Jon nodded, and Mance hugged him once more. After he pulled away, Mance said, “I best be getting back to the chieftains. We’ll talk later?”

“Course Mance. It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back boy,” Mance said warmly.

Jon stared after Mance as he walked back towards the longhouse. The wolf pup was licking at Jon’s hands, and he tried to feel comforted.


	4. Stories

Jon had meant to stay at the feast for longer, but Ygritte had found him early and her hair had looked so lovely in the firelight, and now they lay together, naked and sated, in her tiny hut.

Ygritte and Jon were no strangers to each other; they had lain together half a hundred times before. But every time Jon found something new and exciting in the experience. This time it’d been the scent of her, husky and sweet.

“I’ve got to say, you might be little, but you’re talented,” Ygritte said teasingly, grinning against Jon’s chest.

“What do you mean, _little_?”

Ygritte lifted her head and looked up at him, her eyes dancing. “Well as for size, you’ve got nothing on Longspear Ryk.”

Jon sat up a bit, sputtering, but Ygritte grinned and growled into his ear, “But that hardly matters when you do that thing with your mouth.”

Her voice was low and Jon suddenly found himself wanting to be inside her all over again. He put brought his hand to her cheek and kissed her hard. Ygritte laughed into his lips, then pulled back with a gentle nip. “Give it a minute, little boy. I’m still lightheaded. Not ready for another go just yet.”

Jon lay his head back down. “Please, please don’t call me that when we’ve just lain together. It’s disturbing.”

“Got you to calm down, didn’t it?”

Jon looked at her accusingly.

“Alright, I’m sorry, it’s not funny. I promise I won’t do it again.” She went to rest her head back against his chest, and Jon brought a hand to her hair.

They lay there in silence, utterly content, for several moments. Then in a quiet voice, Jon asked “Ygritte?”

“Hmmm?” she hummed against his chest.

“If you were going to have a babe, you’d tell me right?”

Ygritte looked at him, confused.

“Jon, you know that I take moon tea from the wise woman, it stops all that.”

“I know, it’s just...well, moon tea fails sometimes. And if you were going to have a babe, I’d...I’d want to be there. I’d want them to know who their father was.”

“Where is this coming from?”

“It’s just, I was thinking about if something bad were to happen to you or me-”

“Are you planning on something bad happening to you or me?”

“No,” Jon said, trying not to think of Mance’s earlier words.

“Well then stop worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet.”

They were quiet for a few moments. “But if you were to have a babe, you’d tell me?”

Ygritte smiled sadly. “Of course I’d tell you Jon. You’d be a good father.”

“You think so?”

“Aye, I know it.”

“And if something happened to me, would you tell them who I was?”

“Yes. I’d make a legend of you even; tell the babe grand tales about their father.”

She kissed him again, this time tenderly. When she pulled away, they looked at each other sweetly for several seconds before Ygritte broke the moment with a grin.

“Course, this is all far in the future. I’m not near ready to have a babe yet, nothing is going to happen to you, and if you want the privilege of sharing a babe with _me_ , you’ll have to steal me proper.”

Jon grinned. Bride stealing was an old Free Folk tradition, but these days it was ofttimes just a ceremony done by willing couples. Commonly, if the bride wasn’t willing, she’d kill the man herself, or her clan would do it for her.

But Jon thought he and Ygritte could happily steal away someday soon. “I’ll be able to do it when the time comes.”

“I’ve seen you fight and you’re piss poor at it. I’ll best you easily.”

“We’ll see,” Jon smiled lazily, his worries about Mance’s words forgotten.

“Oh we will see. We will see.” Ygritte closed her eyes and lay back against Jon’s chest. They were quite again for several minutes, basking in the glow of each other.

“Tell me again of that dream you used to have about your mother.”

Jon blushed. “I thought you said it was stupid.”

“Aye, I do think it a bit stupid you’re so caught up on those that birthed ya when it only gives you worry but...but in truth it’s also a bit sweet,” she said, her voice growing soft as she spoke.

Jon smiled and held her closer. “I used to dream of a wild beautiful woman with long dark hair. She had a fierce sword of steel and rode atop a grand horse, so she must have been of the northern clans, a Thenn maybe. Evil southern warriors would try to fight her or force her into cruel southern marriages, but no matter how wicked they were she’d fight them off, smiling as she did so.”

Ygritte sighed softly. “You wished her to be a good spearwife then. And wolfish. Like you.”

Jon looked up at Ygritte and saw something like love shining out of her eyes.

* * *

They both returned to the feast about two hours later, and the festivities had not died down a bit. Mance was playing his lute by the fire while Bryn accompanied on her pipe and Svegar kept time with a drum. Three women sang along in the tongue of the Antler River people, their voices a haunting harmony. Several people danced to the around the fire, and Ygritte pulled Jon in to join them. Jon did so, laughing, and they danced with graceless abandon for several minutes until Jon felt a strong arm yank him sharply out of the circle.

“My little wolf!” yelled Tormund, the words loud and slurred. He no longer had his serious cast from the longhouse; it had been chased away by hours of heavy drinking. “You weren’t here for my grand story about Sheila!”

“I heard part of it earlier,” an annoyed Ygritte said as she joined them. “Didn’t seem to me it was a story worth telling.”

“Not worth telling?!” Tormund said after downing another half-horn of fermented goat’s milk. “Not worth telling!?! It’s thrilling!”

“But it’s not true,” Ygritte bit back.

“Of course it is! All my tales are true!”

“I know you never fuc-”

“But then!” Tormund cut her off, liquid splashing down his beard, “If you don’t like that tale, I can tell you another one! Would you like that?” Jon wasn’t sure if Tormund was speaking to him or Ygritte or...to anyone exactly.

“Would you all like that?!” Tormund boomed. Ah, to the crowd at large then.

Several cheers went up. Even drunk, Tormund was a skilled storyteller, and the Free Folk did love stories.

“Alright then! A tale it is! And what tale should I tell?” The music faded out, and Svegar instead beat a rhythm, building the tension.

“I shall tell you” _drumbeat_ “the tale” _drumbeat_ “of the Wicked Winter King!”

A cheer went up, the drums sounded quickly. More people gathered round the fire. Jon sat down cross legged to listen, and Ygritte rolled her eyes but curled up beside him.

“There once was a man so arrogant, he presumed to call himself the King of Winter.”

Tormund’s voice took on a mysterious, dramatic cast, his love of the story seeming to sober him instantly. He stood in the light of the fire, making gestures with his hands, casting large strange shadows.

Jon had heard this story many many times since childhood, as had every member of the Free Folk. But it was a favorite of many, and Tormund told it so well.

“He crowned himself with ice and told even the snowflakes to kneel at his haughty feet. He tried to bring the whole land under his cold heels, but there were men and women, brave men and women who said no, no you cannot own us. And what were these brave men and women?”

“ **Free!** ” called the crowd, Jon included. Ygritte laughed and shook her head a little at Jon’s eager participation in the call and response, but she also took Jon’s warm hands in hers.

“Yes! They were free!” boomed Tormund. “But the cruel Winter King didn’t want to honor freedom or bravery. He only loved those who knelt. So, he punished those who were free, he stole their land and their food and their stores, and left their children to die come the worst of winter.”

There was a hiss from the crowd at this, and Ygritte giggled quietly into Jon’s shoulder.

“But the Winter King was a fool. He had never lived through true Winter itself, and had no idea how dark, how cold, it would be. And the gods of winter do not like to be challenged.”

“When the cruel gods of ice came out of the dark, out of the cold, to spread death and despair over the land, the Winter King was left helpless.”

Jon shivered, a pair of cold blue eyes entering his memory.

“He tried to fight at first, but he had spurned all the brave men, all the brave women. He was left only with the cowards who knelt. And they could not fight. When the cold gods took the King’s eldest son and made him a servant to their army, this false Winter King knew he could be proud no longer.”

“So he came back to the Free People, he begged them for their help. Said all would be forgotten between them if they fought the darkness with him. Should the Free People trust him?”

“ **No!** ” called the crowd.

“Perhaps not. And they knew this. They knew this man, this paltry King, spoke false. But he had their supplies, their food, their lands. And they knew they would need these things to survive the cold gods.”

“So they struck an accord. And the Free People were valiant. They gave the king council and knowledge, and they used it to craft alliances with all the people of the lands, with the wargs, and the giants, and even the Children.”

Tormund’s voice grew ever louder, lost in the excitement of the tale, and in the firelight Jon felt something ancient and proud run through his bones.

“This grand army of the Light fought together in bravery for a generation. The cold gods laid waste with famine and terror, they tried to freeze the whole world in winter. But the People fought back, bringing light to the endless darkness. Many brave heroes arose from the Free People.”

“Sevr the Half-Giant, who slew 5,000 ice slaves with one stroke. Kag the Quick, who caught cold gods unawares with her speed and size. Odarr the Forger, who taught the People how to make weapons that killed even gods. And finally, during the longest night of Winter, Agror, the Light Bringer. When the night was coldest and the battle seemed lost, Agror drew a spear of fire from the heavens and used it to destroy the leader of cold gods, sending them into hiding for a thousand generations! The War of Winter was won!”

The whole crowd, even Ygritte, cheered, caught up in the emotion of the tale. But then Tormund held up a hand and the group silenced. They all knew what came next.

“But the craven fool who once called himself King of Winter had survived. And despite all he had seen, he still had no faith in the brave Free People. He didn’t believe the Free People could hold back the ice gods for long.”

“Or so he claimed. In truth, he still wanted their lands. He still wanted their food. And he still wanted to be knelt to."

"He wanted to hide those brave People who knew of his arrogance, who knew of his cowardice, who knew that he'd foolishly declared himself King of something that could never be tamed. He wanted to hide these people away, and declare the victory as his own.”

“And so he stole spells from the Children. He stole the minds from the Giants. He stole ice from the People. And he used wicked magics to create a vast Wall from nothingness, a Wall taller than mountains, a Wall the self-styled Winter King said would never be breached or climbed or broken. And he made sure the brave Free People, those heroes who had saved him in his hour of need, were trapped on the other side.”

The people hissed again, seething with the injustice of it.

“He knew the brave People would try to break his grand Wall. So again with wicked magics, he plucked crows from the sky and turned them into cruel men who would kill any Free One who tried to escape their imprisonment.”

Tormund’s face was furious, and Jon felt the fury as his own.

“No one could hear the People’s cries behind the Wall. So the heroes of the Free People were forgotten, and the fool Winter King told the world that _he_ was the Hero of Winter!"

" **Liar!** " the crowd roared.

"Yes! And this Winter King locked the Free People out of good lands that had been theirs, condemned them to live where it was near always winter. Most cruelly, he locked them in a place where the remnants, the whispers, of the awful gods of ice still roamed.”

Tormund’s face showed true sorrow for a moment. He paused for a beat too long, seeming to forget the story. Jon almost moved to stand, to see if something was wrong, but then Tormund swayed on his feet and continued.

“So the Free People were forced to work cold lands and slay the ice gods when they drew too near. The Free People were forced to live hard lives that were too oft cut short. And yet the false Winter King gave a throne to his fat sons, and they gave it to their sons, and they gave to their sons all the lands and light that the Free People had rightfully won!”

“There are still fool Winter Kings in the south! But the People will soon break their Wall and remind them on whose back they’ve gained their titles! People, tell me, what is this cruel, fool King’s name?”

“ **STARK!** ” Jon shouted with the crowd. The old word was sharp in the night air. 

“And tell me, who will break his grand Wall of ice and blood and bring justice to his stolen Kingdom?”

“ **THE FREE FOLK!** ” they shouted joyously, as one.

“Then rise, Free Folk, and seize the throne of the false Winter King! Rise and show him that land, that people, that freedom cannot be owned!”

Everyone rose to their feet and cheered as Tormund sagged, exhausted. Jon, whooping and clapping, caught sight of Mance in the group and grinned. Mance, still seated, gave a tight smile back that did not quite reach his eyes.

* * *

After a few more stories and a few more songs and many more drinks, Mance steered a staggering Jon towards the hut they now shared together. Jon was a bit put out, he wanted to look for Ygritte, but Mance insisted it was time to sleep.

As they entered the hut, Jon’s wolf pup, curled in Jon’s bed fur, jumped up with a wagging tail to greet them.

“There’s my sweet thing!” Jon slurred happily. He cuddled himself around the wolf, petting it with both hands and rubbing its nose with his own.

Mance snorted and smiled fondly as he closed the hut’s door. “I can tell already you’re going to be ridiculous with that animal.”

Jon looked at Mance, completely happy. For months, this hut had felt large and lonely (except for the nights when Ygritte came to join him.) But now he had Mance, and his new wolf, and the little home felt warm and full.

“I’m gonna be” _-hiccup-_ “warging with ‘im” _-hiccup-_ “soon.”

“Take some water Jon.”

Jon took the waterskin Mance gave him gratefully and drowned the hiccups.

“There you are. Now let’s settle into bed.”

Jon began arranging himself in his sleeping furs, his wolf curling around his feet, and as his head hit the ground, Jon called out.

“I should go raiding next year.”

“That so?”

“Yes. I’m ready to go south. Ready to fight whatever's coming that you won't tell me about. Ready to take the head of some cruel Stark king.”

The wolf growled discontentedly at this, but Jon quieted him with a pat on the head.

“The Starks aren’t kings anymore,” Mance said softly. “Just lords.”

Jon waved his hand dismissively, it made no difference. “A king and a lord are nearly the same thing.”

“There is some difference, and it's valuable to know it if you're planning to kill them.” Mance countered. “Plus, they aren’t all so fearsome. I met a Stark once. He stuttered and everything.”

Jon giggled at that.

“The tales aren’t always true is my point, Jon.”

“I know that. I’m not a child. The Crows aren’t actual crows for one.”

“Just remember that I’ve been to the south, I know a bit about it.”

“It's easy to forget you’re from the south,” Jon said, a twinge of jealousy in his voice.

“Only in blood, not in spirit,” Mance said, looking at the wolf curled around Jon’s feet.

Mance was a former southerner, former _Crow_ even, but no one ever questioned his place here. No one ever doubted he was of the Free Folk.

No one treated him like Orell and his friends treated Jon. He envied that.

“Still,” Jon continued, trying to shake these thoughts. “The story is true in spirit. It’s horrible what those kings and lords have done to us. Trapped us, stolen lands, having their black birds slaughter us.”

“Aye, it is horrible." He gave Jon a long look. "Lords often do awful, thoughtless things," Mance continued quietly. 

“That’s why I’ll get a Stark’s head for myself one day,” Jon said sleepily, ignoring the wolf poking at his side.

By a sliver of moonlight peeking around the door, Jon could barely make out that Mance was still staring at him strangely.

“Jon…” he started.

“Hmm?” Jon hummed, his face buried in his furs.

There was a pause so long Jon thought Mance had fallen asleep.

“Goodnight my boy,” he finally called into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, it was a ton of fun writing the Wildling perspective on the Long Night.


	5. Morning

_Jon dreamed of direwolves._

_He had traveled far. His fur was frozen and his paws were tired, but finally he was warm, and safe, and he could rest._

_He sat on his haunches in the falling snow, lifted his little head to the star filled sky, and howled. The cry echoed through endless forests, through aged lands, through the Wall itself._

_He silenced, then pricked his ears up, waiting for a response. After a few long moments, it came. Five faint, distant howls answered him, joyous calls from his littermates, elated that he’d completed his journey. Happy that he’d found home._

_The wolf lay on the snow, content, head between his paws._

* * *

When Jon woke, his first thought was the smell of the old bearskin wrapped around him. He buried his face in it and breathed deep.

His second thought was of the horrible pounding of the hangover in his skull.

“Oh gods,” he groaned, hands at his head. The light seemed too harsh when he tried to open his eyes, and he screwed them back shut.

He needed water. “Mance?” he called out, hoping the older man would take pity on him and bring him some.

There was no response, and Jon slitted his eyes open to take in the room.

The sun was already risen, and Mance was gone. He’d likely begun the work of the day hours ago. Jon was both grateful and sheepish that Mance had allowed him to stay in bed.

Mance had left a bucket of water by the bedside. To Jon’s delight, he had also left some root known to ease nausea and headaches. Jon had gotten it from Ulelda, the clan wise woman, many times, but her hut was all the way cross the camp, and he didn't think he would've had the energy to make it there. Jon drank his fill of water, then curled back in his furs, chewing on the root. With time, he slowly felt the pounding in his head ease, and he breathed in again the soothing scent of bear skin.

It was then he realized his wolf was gone.

Jon sat up too quickly, his head swimming. “Pup? Pup?!”

He looked at the small pawprints on the floor of his hut, leading out the door. He wrapped himself in his outer furs, and hurriedly began to pull on his boots, when he saw the shadow of a small nose poking under the door.

He bolted over, one boot half on, and threw the door open. The wolf pup sat there, wet with fresh snow, tongue rolling from his mouth. Jon relaxed.

“You gave me a fright, sweet thing.” Jon gathered the little beast in his arms. He laughed as a little tongue licked his face.

Jon has wished to stay in bed a bit longer and let the pain in his head ease fully, but now he was already up. He might as well start the day, else he could face a lecture from Mance about laziness.

Jon fully laced his boots, put the remainder of the root in his furs for later, then braced himself and left the hut.

The sunlight seemed too bright and he found himself blinking blearily, struggling to adjust. The wolf started to wriggle, and Jon set him on the ground and rubbed at his eyes.

He was a bit dizzy, but he should start walking. He should go find Harma and ask what needed doing before council tonight.

Jon’s worry over the council momentarily overcame his headache. _“Nothing good boy, nothing good.”_ Jon sighed hard and started moving, the pup trotting faithfully at his heels.

Soon, Jon began to feel more at ease as he breathed in the smell of the morning air, and when he reached Harma, Jon was able to speak to him more or less naturally.

  
Harma did need help as it happened. Much of the camp was queasy and slow footed from the night before, and Gjala, who usually helped with cooking, was still getting sick in the bushes. Could Jon fetch him some root vegetables from their stores?

Jon agreed readily, and went off across the camp.

Before he could reach the small cave where food was kept, he tripped over a pair of boots covered in a light dusting of fresh fallen snow. Jon looked back and saw Tormund, lying on the ground, winter all over his clothes. Apparently, he had not made it to the longhouse where clan guests usually stayed.

Jon knelt down and checked at his wrist; Tormund’s pulse still beat strong. He then began to shake Tormund’s shoulder.

“Tormund. Tormund!”

The giant man stirred and let out a giant groan.

“ _Ǝzéish ume_ ,” Tormund moaned in his native tongue.

Tormund was certainly out of his head; he rarely spoke anything but common when he visited the Forest Clan. Always said it was rude to speak to a man so he couldn't understand you.

Jon didn't know every word in the language of the Antler River People, but he knew enough to tell Tormund was being a bit ridiculous. “ _Íla shezuhaktúhe,_ ” Jon countered.

Tormund just groaned again. Jon rummaged in his furs for the root he’d been saving. He held it out to the giant moaning man.

 _“Ababa dima, ǝlú._ ” Jon offered.

 _“Sámeme,_ ” Tormund rasped. “ _Emegnǝ ebdesǝ._ ”

He then rolled over and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground. Jon wrinkled his nose, trying not to let this reawaken his own nausea. But still, Jon rubbed soothing circles on Tormund’s back.

When he had finished, Jon helped guide Tormund to his feet. “I’ll take you back to my hut and you can sleep it off. Yes?”

Tormund groaned his assent, and leaned on Jon as they made their way to Jon’s home. Once there, Jon lay him in his sleeping furs, helped him out his wet, cold clothes, and into some old coats of Mance’s. They were much too small, but they’d have to do.

Tormund mumbled apologies and thank yous in two languages as Jon moved round the hut. When Jon placed more water and the remainder of the root next to him, Tormund grabbed his hand.

“ _Íla_...you...you’re a good man, little wolf.”

“It’s alright, Tormund.”

“The tale, last night, I don’t...you don’t deserve...none of us should have to...it isn’t fair.”

Jon’s heart paused. Somehow this seemed about more than a story told by firelight.

“What are you saying?”

“The cold gods…” Tormund trailed off.

Jon grabbed at his shoulders, “What about the cold gods?”

But Tormund was already snoring.

* * *

Jon tried not to let fear grip him as he worked.

When he’d returned to Harma, the man had thanked him, but also scolded him for taking so long. Jon was set to peeling the vegetables he’d fetched, so now his knife whittled away them, producing a small mountain of skins.

But it was dull, easy work, too quiet, too easy to think. And think Jon did.

The cold gods, Tormund had said. Was that the “nothing good?” Were they rising again in force?

In truth, this would not be so surprising. It had noted for years that the cold god's wights rose with greater and greater frequency. There were rumors from the farthest clans north of full villages wiped out. Mance had spent much of his life trying to warn other clans of this, trying to prepare them for the worst of his suspicions.

But there was a terrifying difference between suspicion and surety.

Maybe he was overthinking this, Jon thought. Maybe Tormund’s words had just been the ramblings of a man suffering from too much fermented milk. The council could be about anything. Maybe the Ice River Clans were warring again, or the Crows were about to launch a new campaign against them. Hell, maybe it was just about the upcoming winter.

 _“Do you really believe that?”_ a cold voice whispered in his skull.

At the edge of camp, he thought he could see ice blue eyes through the trees.

The knife slipped and bit into Jon’s skin. The pain broke him from his thoughts, and he stared as fat drops of blood welled up on his thumb.

Oddly, Jon found the smell of it comforting.

Harma rushed over, “Wrap that boy, wrap it now, before you get blood on the vegetables!”

He handed Jon a rag, and Jon quickly pressed it down and tied it off tightly.

“I swear, youth, always head in the clouds.” Harma groused. “Pay attention boy! ”

Jon apologized, then looked around him, truly aware of the camp for the first time in a while. It had come to life fully in the past hour, people finally waking up from the night before. People rushed to prepare food, skinned animals, cleaned the previous night’s mess. He could even see Ygritte near the longhouse. Her hair was tied back, and she was bent over a broom sweeping, no doubt helping prepare the building for tonight. She noticed Jon looking from cross the camp, gave him a little wave, then grinned and shook her arse at him.

Despite himself, Jon huffed out a quiet laugh. The wolf pup worried at the rag on his hand.

“Boy, the vegetables!”

Jon picked the knife back up and went to return to his work. Then he saw Mance a few steps away, walking towards a group approaching the camp. Jon looked closer, and saw that their skins were adorned with oyster shells.

A coastal clan, from Hardhome, Jon realized with surprise. And indeed, there was the Chieftain, Karsi, hugging Mance as if they were old friends.

It had been at least five years since they’d met with the clans from the Storrold's Point. They’d had a trading dispute with them a few years before. No one had died, but it had been a near thing. If Karsi was coming back into camp with the Forest Clan, things must be serious. A shiver ran down Jon’s spine. He buried his free hand in his wolf’s fur for comfort.

“Where were you?!” a harsh voice called from behind him.

Jon turned, and his heart dropped as he saw Orell marching towards him. In a camp this small, it was only good luck that Jon had avoided him thus far, but it seemed his luck had run out.

“I set aside my days to teach your sorry ungrateful ass, and you just prance off into the wilderness whenever you feel like?”

As Orell got closer, Jon jumped up and moved back, but Orell grabbed him by the ear and held tight.

“What, being a warg not good enough for you, _you princely little shit_ -”

“Fuck off!” shouted Jon, pushing Orell off.

“Don’t you tell me to fuck off, brat!”

“Boys enough of this!” called Harma, rushing over.

“Oh, he’s not had near enough,” sneered Orell.

“Try it. Try to fight me like a man.”Jon snarled. “Bet you can’t. Bet you can’t fight me without your dirty little bird.”

Orell pushed Jon, Jon pushed back. Orell hit him, Jon hit back. Orell staggered. A small crowd gathered, cheering for a fight. Harma screamed at them to stop, the wolf bared his teeth at Orell, Jon’s fingernails bit into his clenched fist.

“That’s enough!” Mance said harshly, breaking through the onlookers. “Stop this foolishness!”

The tension was broken, people began to disperse. Still, Orell glared at Jon, and Jon glared at Orell, until he felt a hand under his chin and Mance forced Jon to meet his eyes.

They stared at each other, challengingly, for a long moment. Eventually, Jon couldn’t bear the disappointment in Mance’s gaze, and he dropped his eyes. Mance released his chin.

“I see forest blood still runs hot,” Karsi said wryly.

“Apologies you had to witness such foolishness right as you first arrived.”

“No troubles, Mance. Men are often fools.” Karsi looked at Jon closer. “And I see this one has become a man in my absence. Is this truly your little sweet Jon?”

Jon bristled at the title Karsi had given him, but Mance laughed darkly. “Yes the very same, though not so sweet as he once was.”

“Shame. Still, nice to see you Jon.”

She offered a hug, and despite Jon’s wounded pride, he returned it. Karsi smelled strangely calming, like fresh fish and the sea, and for a moment Jon’s worries were eased.

She clapped him on the shoulder and released him, then went to say her hellos to Harma. Jon took the opportunity to catch Mance’s eye.

“I have to talk to you.”

“Is it about how you’re fighting for no damn good reason?”

“I had a good reason, Orell’s an ass.”

“That ass is the best warg within a hundred leagues, so you best learn to control yourself if you want to learn.”

“I don’t want to talk about Orell!” Jon exclaimed, irritated. “Tormund said something about the cold -”

“Whatever Tormund said," Mance said, cutting Jon off harshly, "you’ll find out about it tonight at council. Which I have to prepare for.” Mance turned to leave.

“Can’t you just tell me now?”

Mance spun around, his eyes steely.

“Why? Cause you were raised by the clan chieftain? Does that make you more _worthy_ of information than everyone else?”

“No.” Jon’s voice was small.

“Damn right no. We’re not southerners. That’s not how we do things, as you know very well.”

Jon felt his face reddening with shame.

“Now, I have to prepare to talk to our people tonight, because that is what they’ve chosen me to do. Orell!”

The warg, who was angrily whittling away at a piece of wood at few feet away, looked up.

“You have time to teach the boy today?”

Orell spat on the ground. “That ungrateful shit-”

“That ungrateful shit will be cleaning your hut for the next week if you agree to continue teaching him.”

Orell paused and considered this. “Aye then.”

“Mance!” Jon protested.

“You need a teacher, and you owe him apologies. Or would you rather stumble around in the dark for years and get lost in a wolf mind?”

Jon looked down, his lips curled in a snarl round his teeth.

“Settled then. You're with Orell. See you at council tonight.”

Mance left, following Karsi and the other coastal people to the longhouse. Jon glared at his back.

Orell sniffed. “Well then, best be getting off-”

“Not yet,” Harma said, returning to them with another knife. “I had already enlisted Jon’s help to peel these vegetables. And since you’ll be taking a pair of hands away from me…”

And so Jon and Orell spent the next hour trading silent glares over a growing pile of vegetable skins.

* * *

As the sun dipped below the horizon, a horn sounded throughout the camp, calling all to council.

Jon made his way down the path in the torchlight, the longhouse seeming to loom large in the twilight. Jon’s gloved hands shook with nervousness.

He tried to think about how much he hated Orell. Their lesson that afternoon had been tense and horrible. They spent most of it “meditating” which meant angrily staring at the other. The silence was occasionally punctured with insults, like when Orell called Jon stupid for getting so drunk he couldn’t remember his dreams, or when Orell declared that his wolf pup was “mangy,” or when Orell said he was a dumb “southern boy” (Orell claimed after the fact he’d said “summer boy,” but Jon was not inclined to believe him.)

Jon’s jaw clenched at the memory of this, and for a moment the nervousness was chased from his bones. Hating Orell didn’t feel good, but it was a simple emotion and a simpler problem, nothing compared to the horror of what this council might hold.

Especially if he was right. Especially if the cold gods were truly returning.

Jon shuddered, his dread fully returned. The pup trotting at his heels rubbed against his legs.

He entered the longhouse, which was already quite full. Council could only be held if three quarters of the clan showed up, but it looked like that wouldn’t be a problem tonight. Everyone, it seemed was curious about what brought so many chieftains together.

These leaders all sat at the benches round the fire in the center of the longhouse, and the people of the forest clan sat and stood and stared at them from every direction.

Jon caught sight of Tormund; he was pale, but looked better than he had when he uttered those strange words that morning.

_The cold gods._

Jon saw Yrgitte leaning against the wall in the corner, and he went over to join her. She grinned as he approached, and gave him a quick kiss.

“Heard you got into it with Orell. He's over there, been directing all kinds of rude gestures at you since you walked in.”

“Yeah,” Jon said absently, glancing back at Tormund.

He looked more grim than Jon had ever seen him. Was it just the aftereffects of a hangover? Or -

“Hey, you alright little boy? Your brain doesn’t seem to be in your head.”

“Yeah,” Jon said again, turning back to Ygritte. “Just...worried.”

Her mouth became a thin, concerned line.

“Well, we’ll know what this is all about soon enough, then the worst will be over. Not knowing is always worse than knowing.”

Jon wished he could believe that.

The longhouse was nearly full now, and the horn sounded again, calling them all to silence.

Ulelda, the clan wise woman, entered, Svegar beating his drum beside her. Mance followed after them. All seated stood as they entered. Jon respectfully stopped leaning against the wall for a moment and stood at his full height.

Ulelda, Svegar, and Mance made their way to the center of the longhouse, by the fire, and sat in the seats left open for them. As they sat, so did the room.

Svegar’s drumming stopped, and for a few moments, the room was cloaked in a suffocating silence. Jon couldn’t breathe. Finally -

“I am Ulelda the Wise of the Forest Clan. Who calls this council?”

Mance stood. “I, Mance Rayder, chieftain of the Forest Clan these last five years, do.”

Ulelda nodded. “And who do you bring to speak to your people?”

“I bring to you these chieftains of the Free Folk.”

Each chieftain stood as they spoke.

“I, Vrema, chieftain of the Milkwater’s tip these past three years.”

“I, Elrine, guardian of the Northern Shores of the Bay of Seals these past twelve years.”

“I, Inegla, chieftain of the Northern Shore of the Antler River these past eight years.”

“I, Tormund, chieftain of the Great Hall at the Antler River this past year.”

“I, Karsi, chieftain of the Shore Clans at Hardholme these past seven years.”

The next was spoken through a translator, for this chieftain spoke none of the common tongue and her language was mysterious to most in the room.

“Rauregg, of the Cave People.” Many strained to get a look at this chieftain and her strange painted face. The Cave People were from far, far away. Even Jon, who had traveled a bit with Mance as a child, had never seen one of them before.

The last man seated in front stood. His feet were bare, hard, and dark. Jon realized with surprise it was the man who had entered the longhouse in a rush the day before. When he spoke, his voice was heavy.

“I, Ornad of the Hornfoots.”

There were whispers at this. This man had no chieftain’s title, and anyway, wasn’t the chieftain of the Hornfoots called Darag? Where was he?

Svegar gave a few hard drumbeats. “I ask for silence,” Ulelda called.

The room quieted. She held the silence a moment longer, then continued. “

People of the Forest Clan, do you accept this call for council from your chieftain?”

A loud “Aye” sounded throughout the room.

“Well then, let us begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is largely just prepping for the council. 
> 
> It always bothered me a little that Game of Thrones told us the Free Folk spoke a bunch of different languages, but barely let us hear them. So I thought I'd play with this.  
> The language I'm using here is another David Peterson (Dothraki creator) conlang from another show. Language is called Irathient and I'm likely butchering it, but hey!
> 
> Translations:  
> Ǝzéish ume. - Kill me.  
> Íla shezuhaktúhe. - You'll live.  
> Ababa dima, ǝlú. - Take this plant, eat it.  
> Sámeme, emegnǝ ebdesǝ. - No, I'm so sick.
> 
> Ila - You


	6. Council

The longhouse was thick with tension as Mance got up to speak. Jon could hear the creak of the bench as he stood, the soft footfalls of the few steps he took to the fireside.

  
“When you made me your chieftain, five years ago, it was the greatest honor of my life,” he began.

  
“But we all know you didn’t choose me because I’m the greatest hunter or the best farmer or the fastest with a spear.”

  
Jon’s stomach dropped to his feet. He’d been right. _The cold gods..._

  
“No, you chose me because we faced a great horror here. We saw something old, something dark, take three of our children and turn them into cold, evil things.”

  
Jon shivered. He remembered.

  
He remembered those dead blue eyes, the way Uli still moved though she’d been cut open.

  
He remembered how they looked as their little bodies burned.

  
Most of all, Jon remembered the glimpse of even colder eyes of ice in mist, staring at him through the trees.

  
Many in this room had witnessed that night. Despite the firepit, despite the shared heat of a hundred bodies, there was no warmth here.

  
“You chose me because I’ve spent a long time learning from people, and teaching people, how these creatures are fought. You chose me because I know how to look to the legends of not just the Forest Clan, but the legends of the Hornfoots, and the Cave People, and the Thenns, and all the people of the Free Folk for knowledge on how to stop them. And yes, I’ve even looked to how our oldest enemies fight them.”

  
“For the last five years, we’ve been kept safe by patrols, by traps, by burning the dead. We’ve kept these monsters at bay the way Free Folk have for thousands of generations.”

  
Mance stopped, and took a deep breath. Jon knew Mance well enough to see the fear in his stoic face.

  
“But now I fear that may not be enough.”

  
A few indrawn breaths cut the silence.

  
“I have gathered here chieftains you know, you trust. I’ve gathered chieftains from distant lands. I’ve even gathered an old enemy or two.”

  
“All of them say the same thing. The dead rise, more and more frequently. They attack, more and more frequently. And one clan alone cannot stop them.”

  
Jon’s breath fogged in the air.

  
“I call them to share their stories with you, to convince you of the reality of the danger here. And then we’ll talk about what is to be done. I have a few notions, but as always, I welcome your advice.”

He sat back down.

The wind whistled through the cracks in the walls.

A cleared throat. Ulelda spoke.

“These chieftains will speak, and then we will have questions. I first call on Vrema of the Milkwater’s tip.”

  
The chieftains spoke, each tale more terrible than the last.

  
They spoke of hunting parties gone missing.

  
They spoke of entire camps wiped out.

  
They spoke of rotting snow bears with blue eyes, no fear. Who kept moving no matter how many of their limbs were chopped off.

  
They spoke of people ripped apart, their bodies left in perverse displays.

  
Many of the chieftains became emotional while telling these tales. Elrine of the Bay of Seals had to stop for several minutes to compose herself when she spoke of her niece being ripped apart.

  
At one point, Tegi, a boy of 12, began to wail like an infant, and his mother cradled him to her chest and took him from the longhouse.

  
Jon didn’t think anyone here would tease the child for lack of bravery.

  
When Tormund rose for his turn, Jon’s heart seized at the look on his face.

  
“Many of you know me. You know I love a good tale. But there’s one tale I don’t often tell.”

  
“There was once a Hall where the Antler River met the sea. It was called Ruddy Hall. It was my father’s Hall. He built it with his own hands.”

  
“One night, a few years ago, as we drank and danced, my eldest brother, Torsi, quarreled with another man. The man tried to kill him, then the man was stabbed, as happens sometimes.”

  
“The man died, and his body was laid on a table to the side, to be prepped for proper burial later.”

  
“We carried on with the night, and then we heard a cry. I’ve never - I’ve never heard a cry like that. Nothing in it was human.”

  
Tormund ran a hand across his face, steeling himself.

  
“The corpse rose and attacked those nearby. It’s eyes were deathly blue. We tried to kill it, but it ripped the throat out of a spearwife and snapped my brother Torsi’s neck.”

  
Tormund was breathing hard.

  
“And then, within no time at all, they had risen too. Their eyes were the same. I’ll never forget how Torsi…”

  
Tormund’s voice caught, and he cleared his throat to cover it. Jon felt frozen.

  
“They seemed to be attacking everyone. People panicked, we ran, we barred the doors with the monsters still inside. Most who were still alive got out but...but not everyone.”

  
Tormund spoke faster and faster, seeming to want the next part done.

  
“The inhuman screams were just coming from the Hall, they were louder and louder, and they were trying to come through the walls, and we didn’t know what to do so, we burned it. We just - we burned it.”

  
His voice was strangled.

  
“I don’t know if we could have saved anyone else, but my father, my second brother, and his children were all still inside.”

  
There were tears in Tormund’s eyes now, and he struggled to regain control of himself.

  
“I just - it - I’d seen the risen dead before. Something comes in through the night, kills people, then makes them into monsters. That’s how it goes in all the old stories too.”

  
“But...there were no monsters coming through the night. This was just an ordinary dead body, seemingly not touched by anything evil. And still it - and usually there’s time, between when the dead die and when they rise. There’s time, time to burn the body. But this happened so fast - there are times I think a saw a figure in the mist, with ice eyes and outstretched arms but I, I don’t even know if that was real - I just see my brother’s children.”

  
Now Tormund seemed overcome, and he sat down heavily. Inegla, his clansman, pulled him to her shoulder. Tormund was shaking there, and it seemed to Jon he was trying to muffle sobs.

  
Karsi got up to speak, but Jon barely heard her.

  
Jon knew there was no shame in tears. But it was truly horrible to see Tormund, the most joyful man Jon knew, driven to this.

  
Jon had known much of Tormund’s family died a few years back. Jon had known that Tormund mourned them greatly. But to hear it, to hear how it happened -

  
Jon looked to Ygritte. Her eyes were wide, almost dead.

  
Rauregg of the Cave People stood, as did her translator. She spoke passionately, the meaning of her words trailing but seconds behind her.

  
“I am from far away. I have spent my whole life in the caves of the great Frostfangs. I have never seen this forest, never traveled so far from home.”

  
“But during the last Blood Moon, when we were celebrating our highest holidays, dead things crawled from within the caves and slaughtered ten of my people.”

  
“The old tales speak of this, our grandmothers had lived this, so we mourned, and we moved on.”

  
“But then, three turns of the moon later, in a different cave, it happened again. This time, we lost seventeen.”

  
“My people were panicked, and yes, so was I. And then this traveler came to us and said 'this isn’t just happening to your people, it is happening _everywhere_.'”

  
Jon felt suddenly like an animal in a trap.

  
“This sickness is spreading through all the Lands Beyond the Wall. So I came here to tell you my story. My people search for a new home, but I think we need something else. This traveler, your Mance, says we all must stand together as one Free Folk. I believe him. For the tales tell us that last time, this is how the cruel enemy was defeated.”

  
Her last words were of hope, but Jon just thought of ice eyes.

“And last to speak,” Ulelda called, “Ornad of the Hornfoots.”

  
Ornad stood. He was staring at the ground, rubbing his hands together.

  
“I am no chief,” he said. “I have no skill at speaking. Darag was supposed to speak to you today. He’s - he knew how to speak.”

  
“I’m just a scout. But I thought I should explain his absence.”

  
“I was sent here because we received word that Darag’s village, the largest of the Hornfoot villages, was ravaged by an attack from the Ice Gods.”

  
At this, the mood in the solemn room shifted, anxiety sharp in the air. Darag’s village was only a four day journey north.

  
“We don’t know how many survived, I’m still waiting to get word.”

  
“When was this?” someone in the room shouted.

  
“Is Darag still alive?” called another.

  
And a third, “Are they coming here next?”

  
Voices began to chatter, louder and louder. Svegar beat hard on the drum.

  
“I ask for silence!” Ulelda called. “I ask for silence!”

  
Ulelda was a wise woman, an elder. One of the most respected people in camp.

  
And yet it took her nearly four minutes to regain control of the room.

  
When the people finally quieted. Ulelda gestured to Ornad, who still stood, terrified.

  
“Continue, Ornad of the Hornfoots.”

  
“W-well,” he stammered, trying to regain his courage. “This happened three nights past. I don’t know if Darag still lives, but so far, I’ve heard he does not. And - I don’t, I don’t know where the ice gods plan to go next. I can tell you more when I know it.”

  
Ornad sat back down. The longhouse felt on the edge of bursting.

  
“It has been spoken," Ulelda intoned. “Now I open this council to questions from the people assemb-”

  
The room exploded. Shouts filled the air, people stood on benches, wildly gestured at Ulelda, trying to get her attention and be called to speak. The bangs of Svegar’s drum could barely be heard over the noise.

  
“One at a time! One at a time!” Ulelda shouted. No one seemed to hear her.

  
Mance stood up on his bench and bellowed. “All you! Calm down! We’ll get nowhere if we’re panicked!”

  
This finally seemed to get through to people, and the roar quieted.

  
“Thank you!” came Ulelda’s voice. “Let’s try this now. If you have a question, raise your hand, and I will call you to speak.”

  
At least thirty hands went up immediately.

  
Ulelda seemed at a bit of a loss. There was no way to tell who was first. She looked at Svegar a bit helplessly, then seemed to choose at random.

  
“Raulni the Bear Hunter, speak.”

  
Raulni stood.

  
“Has the chieftain talked to the clan elders? Do they think it’s safe to stay here?”

  
“A fair question, Raulni the Bear Hunter. Can the Forest Clan chief and the elders respond?”

  
“I conferred with the elders yesterday eve,” said Mance. “I told them what I found out on my travels. We went over the camp defenses. And I am of the opinion that no, it is not safe to stay here.”

  
Voices threatened to erupt again, but silenced quickly after a shout from Mance.

“Thank you clan chieftain.” said Ulelda, who seemed increasingly irritated. “And who will speak to the elder’s opinion?” 

“I can,” said Hror, struggling to stand. Hror was a man of almost seventy years, but his voice was strong as he addressed the people.

  
“I have had a seat on the elder council of the Forest Clan for twenty years. I have seen many chieftains come and go. I have lived in this camp all my life. I have never known another home.”

  
“But I, and the elder council, agree with the chieftain. In my youth, ice gods hunted only once a generation. But now, they seem to be come for us whenever darkness falls. Especially with the fall of Darag’s village, it is no longer safe to stay.”

  
“Thank you, elder,” Ulelda said loudly, hurriedly, in an attempt to stave off more panic from the room. “Rauni the Bear Hunter, your question has been answered.”

  
“Next, I call upon Elile Foxblooded. Speak.”

  
“I’ve just had a babe, and one more on the way. I don’t know that I’m fit to move. Especially with winter coming. Couldn’t we improve our defenses, dig more traps, have more patrols?”

  
“Can anyone respond to this question?”

  
“I think I can,” said Ornad nervously.

  
“Speak, Ornad of the Hornfoots.”

  
He stood again, shakily. “Well, Darag had been increasing defenses for a while. Two years back we faced a bad attack during our seal hunt, and after that Darag had great pits dug around the entire village."

  
“He was a bit obsessed with keeping the village prepared. Kept saying he saw worse things coming in his dreams. And still, all his preparations weren’t enough.”

  
_What could they do against enemies like these?_ Jon wondered. What could they do against gods, and the dead?

  
He looked at Ygritte, and in a flash saw her cold under him with ice eyes.

  
Dread was settling over the room, people speaking in panicked whispers.

  
“This is ridiculous!” boomed an angry voice.

  
“You did not-”

  
“Oh fuck your rules old bat!”

  
Glegb, face red, stood and angrily pointed at Mance.

  
“You’ve done a great job frightening the children-”

  
“Sit down! I ask for your silence!”

  
“But if you don’t want to fight these things, the clan should stand behind someone who will! I’m not leaving my home and my hunt for a bunch of children’s tales! A strong man could beat these things easy!”

  
There were a few murmurs of assent in the room, and Mance looked towards Gledb, eyes hard.

  
“I wish to respond to this directly Ulelda.”

  
“Fine,” she said, seemingly giving the council up for lost.

  
Mance walked slowly towards where Gledb stood, looking him up and down.

  
“You weren’t there as I recall, when Bjor and Vara and little Uli were killed. You’ve never seen the dead fight. I have.”

  
“That doesn’t-”

  
“And clearly,” Mance cut in more loudly, “clearly you’re a piss poor listener, because braver men and women than you have just spent the last hour telling you about the threat we face.”

  
“We’ve always seen-”

  
“And when an elder, a man of seventy years, tells you that these things used to come for us once in a generation, but now they hunt nightly, you still think that you can go out with your tiny battleaxe one night and take them on alone?”

  
Gledb's face grew redder still. Mance turned away.

  
“A brave man knows when the fight will cost too much. The Forest Clans are a brave people, a valiant people. We’ve braved clan wars, brutal winters. We’ve survived here, thrived here. But there are not enough us for this fight. Not alone.”

  
“All your pretty words Mance,” Gledb spat. “But you haven’t said a word about what we should actually do. Where we should actually go. As that cave bitch said, this is happening everywhere.”

  
Mance glared.

  
“Rauregg, of the Cave People,” he said slowly, “said this was happening everywhere. But she also said something else you forgot to mention. She said we should stand together as free people.”

  
Mance turned from Gledb and addressed the room.

  
“I do have a plan, as it happens. Rauregg mentioned it in passing, but in my travels I’ve been talking to many clans of Free Folk. We all face the same enemy, the same fears.”

  
“I say we travel to an easily defensible position, like the Skirling Pass in the Frostfangs. Not just the Forest Clans, but the Hornfoots, and the Cave People, those from the Milkwater and the Antler River and Hardhome. We’ll send out emissaries to the Thenns and the Ice River clans and the Giants. We’ll gather all the Free Folk together, in one place, for the first time in a hundred generations.”

  
People were nodding their heads. Ygritte grabbed Jon’s hand and squeezed it.

  
Even Ulelda, who was supposed to show no favor to any side, was smiling.

  
“And there, we will decide how to make our stand. Maybe we’ll turn and fight them, maybe we’ll break the Wall, kill us some Crows, and head as far south as possible.”

  
“But either way, we face it with strength, as a people, the way the First Men did thousands of years ago.”

  
Jon felt his heart sing. The wolf’s eyes shone.

  
“Some of us call these things ‘gods.’ But we know they can be beaten, know they can be broken. We know we can survive them, we’ve done it before. We can do this if we stand together, as the Free Folk, the bravest people this land has ever known!”

  
There were cheers at this, the mood finally bright in the darkness. Jon joined in, and was pleased to see Tormund with a smile at his lips at last.

  
Ulelda seemed to take this as an opportunity.

  
“The Forest Clan chieftain has a proposal. The Forest Clan will move to the Skirling Pass, setting out before the turn of the next moon, and will send emissaries to other clans urging them to do the same. Is there another proposal?

  
“Yes,” said Glebd, apparently one of the few unmoved by Mance’s speech. “I say we stay here, improve our defenses, and fight the demons where we stand.”

  
“Then let us choose as a people,” Ulelda stood.

  
“Who here wishes to stay and improve our defenses? Say aye.”

  
About seven scattered “ayes” sounded across the room.

  
“And who here,” cried Ulelda, her voice powerful. “Who here wishes to move to the Skirling Pass and join with the Free Folk as one people! Say aye!”

  
“Aye!” called Jon, called Ygritte, called a hundred other voices.

  
“The the council is decided!” Svegar beat his drum and the room cheered.

  
Drinks emerged from seemingly nowhere, old songs were being sung, Tormund had picked up Ulelda and was spinning her around. Even Orell looked happy. Jon felt the dread chased from his heart.

  
“One people,” Ygritte was saying. “We’re gonna be one people again.”

  
Jon put a hand around her shoulder and she leaned into him.

  
“Gods, that hasn’t happened since the time of my grandmother’s grandmother.”

  
“Then we’ll beat those ice fuckers back,” Jon grinned. “They’ll never stand against all the Free Folk together.”

  
He looked at Ygritte. “Gods are you crying?”

  
“Shut up Jon,” she laughed as she kissed him.

  
“Mance!” someone chanted. It spread through the room like a wildfire. “Mance! Mance! Mance!”

  
The night was dark, but they’d face it as a people. The night was cold, but Jon felt warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in keeping with the whole "primitive society that can be surprisingly egalitarian" thing the Wildlings have going on, they conduct meetings using a variant on Robert's Rules.
> 
> Also, if you're wondering why things that don't show up until much later in the show (wight bears, the Night King raising his arms to instantly bring the dead back) are here...In my mind the White Walkers are testing the Wildlings. Seeing how good / bad their defenses are, seeing how much information from the last Long Night they remember. 
> 
> Unfortunately, they don't remember as much as they need to.


	7. Lessons

Two hours after council ended, Ygritte was astride Jon, her fingers a tangle in his long dark hair.

  
They were a bit addled from drink, but still Jon had taken the care to set a roaring fire in the pit of his hut. He had no idea how he hadn’t burned himself doing it, but they needed the fire. They needed the heat.

  
Because tonight they didn’t just want a quick tumble under furs, they wanted to _see_ each other.

  
And Ygritte was a vision as she rode atop him; her hair, her breasts, the look on her face as she moaned. She bit her lip and ground down _just so_ and Jon’s vision fuzzed at the edges.

  
Suddenly there was a noise at the door, and a burst of cold air entered the room. Jon felt Ygritte turn above him, and the door slammed shut quickly.

  
Ygritte paused for a long moment, then began to laugh hysterically.

  
“What?” asked Jon, “Who was it?”

  
“Mance,” she giggled, pulling off Jon and cuddling next to him. “I’ve never seen such a look on that man’s face. He was truly terrified!”

  
Jon smiled, “Aye, he still blushes like a maid sometimes. He can be so odd about it.”

  
“What,” Ygritte said incredulously, “about sex?”

  
“Aye. I remember once when I was younger, I asked him for advice while we were hunting, and he nearly shot his own foot with an arrow.”

  
“Didn’t know that were possible.” Ygritte shifted to lay against Jon’s chest. “How’d you ever learn anything?”

  
“Practice,” Jon said with a grin, then brought her lips to meet his in a hungry kiss.

  
“And,” Jon added after he pulled away, “I asked Tormund.”

  
Ygritte snorted, then settled back against Jon’s side.

  
“So strange. Mance Rayder, chieftain of the Forest Clan, our brave protector against the gods of ice, ‘fraid of a little sex.”

  
“Seems to have plenty of it himself. It’s likely he’s just afraid of _me_ having sex.”

  
“Aye, some parents can be odd about that.”

  
“He’s not my father.”

  
“As good as.” Ygritte sat up. “Should I be going then?”

  
“He’ll probably circle round the camp a few times, leave us to it for a bit,” Jon answered, lightly grabbing hold of one of Ygritte’s ankles. “I say,” Jon kissed Ygritte’s calf, “we finish,” a nip to her inner thigh, “what we started.”

  
He looked up at her from between her legs, asking for silent permission. Ygritte grinned.

* * *

After Ygritte left, Jon lay naked under his furs but for the pendant round his neck, wolf nibbling at his fingers, content. He’d spent so much of the day filled with fear, and so much of his life filled with dread at the memory of ice eyes.

  
But Mance’s speech, the thought of all the Free Folk together as one army, had eased his fears. He believed in the Free Folk. He believed they’d stand strong.

  
After all, how could something cold and dead defeat something so fiery and alive as Ygritte?

  
Jon heard the door crack cautiously. “It’s alright Mance, we’re done. You can come in.”

  
Mance entered the hut, lingering embarrassment on his face. “You’ve got a nice fire going in here.”

  
Jon hummed his assent, shifting in his furs.

  
“Gods, are you drunk again boy?”

  
“Only a little.”

  
“Are you going to be drunk every night I’m home?”

  
“There’s been lots to celebrate,” Jon said, cuddling his wolf.

  
Mance snorted, “If you say so.”

  
In the quiet, Jon hummed a bit of an old song, a song about heroes slaying ice gods and crows alike.

  
“Boy, I would like to take my rest soon.”

  
“Can’t wait ‘till we get to the Skirling Pass,” Jon sighed, ignoring him. “We’ll fight monsters and make the land safe again. And for a thousand generations, people ‘ll sing songs of the brave Free Folk who faced gods of ice and won.”

  
“I’ll steal Ygritte after we win. We’ll build a hut of our own in the forest and tell our children stories of how we beat the monsters back.”

  
Jon was so caught up in this warm daydream, he didn’t notice at first that Mance was staring at his hands, eyes cold.

  
“And then we’ll -”

  
“As I said boy, I’d like to sleep at some point this evening.”

  
At this Jon looked over at him. “What is it?”

  
Mance still stared at his hands.

  
A horrible thought came to Jon that drove the cheer from his mind. He sat up suddenly.

  
_“You don’t think we can beat them.”_

  
Mance looked up sharply at this. “I never said that -”

  
“But you’re thinking it. You don’t think we can win.”

  
Mance sighed. “I think...we’ll have a better idea of what we can do when we see how many allies we can gain and what their resources are.”

  
“But…”

  
“Boy -”

  
“But…”

  
Mance averted his eyes. “But...if I had my way, we’d march on the Wall and try to get south instead of fighting them here.”

  
“You’d turn tail?”

  
“Since when is fighting Crows and breaking a Wall that’s stood for more than a thousand generations turning tail?”

  
“We shouldn’t just hide behind a wall like southerners! _I_ _won’t hide like some southerner!_ ”

  
“Boy, you've spent all day whinging about how I don't tell you things, how I'm not honest with you. Well, here's some honesty! We know almost _nothing_ about these creatures! All we have are legends and myths, and as Tormund’s tale tonight proved, those can fail us.”

  
“We know that fire-”

  
“Yes, we know their wights can be killed by fire, and perhaps if we had some of the chemical arts they use in King's Landing or a great bloody dragon, that would mean something! But King’s Landing will never help us, the dragons are all dead, and there’s only so much we can do with flaming arrows.”

  
Jon’s dread was returning in full. “So we’re helpless.”

  
Mance sighed again. “Boy, let me show you something.”

  
Mance stood and searched for something in his large pack. Eventually, to Jon’s surprise, he pulled out a large southern book, and sat with it, flipping through the pages.

“Come sit next to me, look at this.”

  
Jon stood, his furs pooling at his feet. Mance winced.

  
“For the gods sake boy, put your breeches on.”

  
In the moment, Jon had forgotten that Mance could be odd about nakedness too. He mumbled an apology, then guiltily retrieved his elkskin breeches from underneath his wolf pup and pulled them on.

  
Jon moved over to Mance and sat down. Mance had found the page he was looking for and opened the book wide.

  
Jon had only seen books like this a handful of times in his life. He stroked the side of it, as always amazed by how thin the pages were.

  
“Supposedly, this was taken from the Night’s Watch over a hundred years ago. Details a history of the Long Night. It came into the hands of the Cave People a while back, but none of them could read it, so I asked them to give it to me.”

  
Mance pointed at the strange southern symbols.

  
“Do you know what that says, boy?”

  
Jon shook his head, and Mance suddenly looked guilty.

  
“I should have taught you this. Would be good for you to know how.”

  
“Why?” Jon asked disbelievingly. What use did a man of the Free Folk have for southern books full of southern lies?

  
“There’s useful information. When we compare them to our own legends, we might be able to get a fuller picture of what happened all those years ago.”

  
“For example boy, that line says that ‘ice falls under swords of black.’ Over and over in this book, there are lines about axes of black, arrows of black, ‘weapons forged from cold black stone.’ And look at all the illustrations.”

  
Mance flipped through some pages and pointed at a drawing of a southern sword with a black blade. He flipped again, and showed Jon a black spear piercing through a man of ice.

  
Something sparked in Jon’s memory.

  
“The tale of Odarr the Forger,” Jon breathed. “It’s said that he made spears of black stone to kill the gods.”

  
“Exactly!” Mance boomed, pleased Jon had gotten it. “So, given that both the Crows and the Free Folk mention this, we know that maybe, _maybe,_ these things can be killed with weapons of black stone.”

  
“But then, we know another way to fight them!” Jon cried eagerly. “We can build these weapons-”

  
“We don’t know which black stone does it, boy.”

  
Jon quieted.

  
“But, the Night’s Watch is filled with books like these. It’s filled with old knowledge, old weapons. If we can take Castle Black and hold it, maybe we could learn how to fight the monsters. We could get most of our people behind the Wall to safety, and we would have the _time_ to figure out how to fend these devils off. We won’t be constantly running, scared every time night falls. We’ll have a safe place to learn, to prepare, to plan our battles.”

  
Jon had to admit, this was a sound idea. “I suppose taking the black castle might have it’s advantages.”

  
“And besides,” he continued, grinning. “I’ve always wanted to hunt Crows.”

  
Mance laughed. “That’s the spirit boy. Now, to bed with you.”

  
Jon walked by the fire back over to his furs. His wolf snuggled to his side. He watched the flames and the smoke rise and was halfway to a dream of black feathers snatched by fangs when a thought occurred to him.

  
“The Winter King might send his armies after us if we try to hold the castle,” Jon mused sleepily. “We’ll have to take some fool Stark heads too.”

  
Mance hummed. “Maybe we could set down a truce with them.”

  
Jon snorted. “The Starks setting a truce with the Free Folk? That’s never happened in ten thousand generations.”

  
Jon clutched a hand round his wolf pendant. He was back on his way to dreaming, howls echoing in the wood, when Mance spoke next.

  
“They might," he said in the silence, his eyes on the flames.

  
"If we had something they wanted enough, they just might.”


	8. Goodbyes

_His paws padded in the snow as he made his way through the trees. His hot breath fogged in the night air. The moon was running with him, and the hunting was good. He'd found pack here. But the howls of his littermates were growing ever fainter…_

  
“Jon.”

  
_The wolf snarled._

  
“Don’t give me that noise boy, wake up.”

  
_Eyes opened._

  
“Mance.” Jon's voice was rough from sleep. 

  
It was early. The sun had not yet come up.

  
“Morning boy. Wanted to wake you before I left.”

  
“I - what?” Jon stammered uncomprehendingly.

  
“I see sleep still has you. I’m leaving boy. Now.”

  
Jon sat up at this.

  
“But you’ve only just come back.”

  
“Yes, but Karsi asked me to come to Hardhome with her, do some talking and convince her people to come with us.”

  
“Can’t Karsi do that herself?”

  
“Her people still don’t much trust me, but she thinks they’ll be more likely to listen if I come into their place and tell it to them with my own mouth.”

  
“I could go with you.”

  
“We need every man we can spare to prepare the camp for travel. You’re more important here than at some council meeting.”

  
Jon huffed.

  
“I’ll see you again soon. I’ll come back before the Forest Clan leaves camp, and we’ll make our way to the Skirling Pass together.”

  
Jon nodded, eyes down, then hugged Mance close. “I’ll miss you.”

  
Mance held the hug a long while, bringing a hand to the back of Jon’s head.

  
“I’ll miss you too, boy.” he whispered.

  
After another long moment, Mance pulled back, keeping his hands at Jon’s shoulders.

  
“You know I’ve only ever wanted you to have a good life,” he started. “That’s why I -” Mance stopped suddenly, choking on the words.

  
“I thought this might be a good place for us. A good place to settle. But now - I will never forgive myself if these monsters -” he suddenly pulled Jon into another, more desperate, hug.

  
"We'll talk more when I return. But I’m going to keep you safe,” Mance said into Jon’s hair. “No matter what else, I promise you’ll be safe.”

  
Jon breathed in Mance’s scent, woodsmoke and bear grease and leather, and tried to hold it in his memory.

* * *

  
The next few days went quickly. There was much to do before the camp could set out; supplies to gather, meat to smoke, sleds to build.

  
Orell’s lessons were mostly forgotten in the rush to set off, though he did still bother Jon about whether or not he could see through wolf eyes yet.

  
“Not while waking,” Jon had scowled, and Orell rolled his eyes and muttered about southerners.

  
But Jon did feel increasingly connected to the wolf. At times smells seemed deeper, food tasted stronger, he could hear animals in the trees. Jon dreamed of wolves near every night.

  
“Are you going to name him?” Tormund asked one day as he watched Jon and the wolf play a game of fetch.

  
Jon considered this for a long while. It some ways, it seemed almost insulting to give the wolf a name like some pet. But on the other hand, if Jon just called the wolf ‘pup’ or ‘sweetling’ for the rest of their days, that seemed even more an insult.

  
Jon gave it thought over the next several days, eventually landing on “Ghost” for the wolf’s silence and white fur. He told this to Tormund one day as they sparred.

  
“Well named!” Tormund exclaimed. “Now, let me show you how to use my new battleaxe.”

  
They spent the afternoon fighting and laughing until they were caught by Harma. He shouted at them for wasting time while the rest of camp was busy, and set them to sorting dried berries into different bags.

  
Tormund left about a week after Mance, heading back to the Antler River with Inelga to hold council with their own people.

  
“They’ll say yes easily, don’t worry about that. We at the Antler River love fighting Crows and ice monsters,” Tormund said with a laugh in his voice.

  
Jon was sorry to see him go. “Will you travel with us to the Skirling Pass?”

  
“We could try, but in truth my people probably need a bit more time to prepare,” Tormund admitted.

  
“So this is goodbye for a while then.”

  
“Not goodbye, we’ll see each other soon enough, little wolf.” He bent down to scratch Ghost under the chin. “And this one will maybe be a big wolf by then.”

  
The two men hugged each other hard. As Jon pulled back, he saw sadness in Tormund’s eyes.

  
“It’ll be alright, Tormund,” Jon said quietly. “ _Zawǝla_.”

  
Tormund gave him a half smile.

  
“ _Sathéithei, tishinka_.”

  
He clapped Jon on the shoulder and held out his drinking horn.

  
“Now, why don’t you share one quick drink with me before I go?”

* * *

  
After Tormund’s departure, Jon found himself spending all his days chopping and sorting and building and cooking, and spending all his nights with Ygritte. They would go back to his hut or hers, almost always nearly so tired from the work of the day they fell asleep far too quickly.

  
Jon found himself wishing he could spend more time with her, so when Hror said the clan needed pairs to hunt for more meat to smoke, they both jumped at the chance.

  
They spent their day in the forest walking, laughing, Ghost loping along beside them. They had snowball fights, and chased each other, and kissed. But they did also manage some work; they brought down rabbits and squirrels and birds and even a small deer.

  
They had started back home when surprise snow clouds blew in. They were forced to shelter in a cave for the night, their kills packed in the small space beside them to protect them from predators. Ygritte said she could barely stand the stench, but Jon found it comforting.

  
They set a small fire and cuddled together, whispering stories and making plans and telling jokes. It was one of the best nights they’d had in a long while.

* * *

  
_The wolf ran through the wood, slipping through the trees. There was danger here, a great black bird low in the sky. If the bird caught him in its talons, the wolf pup knew it would drag him, drag him far away._

  
_The bird landed above him, screeched, and its beak had fangs-_

  
Jon yelped as he woke, and was quickly hushed by Ygritte.

  
“Shh now!” she whispered harshly. “Come here, quietly!”

  
Jon, still trying to shake the dream from his limbs, made his way over to where Ygritte sat at the opening of the cave.

  
A herd of elk was charging by, not within arrowshot, but still close enough to see their antlers and hear their great groans.

  
“Bet they’re going up to the stream to drink,” Ygritte whispered. “Bet I could bring a few down if I got there first.”

  
“We already have a full sled,” Jon whispered back. “We should wait here until it’s lighter, then just set out for home.”

  
“We can carry an elk. There’s two of us and your great wolf, between all of us we can bring it all back.”

  
“Just wait here with me. Please.” Jon felt childish, but he couldn’t shake the sense from his dream, the sense that there was danger waiting in the woods.

  
“Stop your worrying, little boy, I’ll be fine. I’m running to the stream now. Break down the camp, I’ll be back here soon.”

  
“Ygritte -”

  
But she had already slipped into the dawn.

* * *

  
Jon had put out their fire and packed their supplies and sat waiting for Ygritte to return. The sun rose, and rose, and soon it was nearly at it’s highpoint, and Ygritte still had not returned.

  
Ghost paced around the cavemouth. Jon knew the stream was at most an hour’s walk, and Ygritte should have been back long ago. Jon sighed.

  
“Ghost, stay here. If she comes back before I do, come find me. Don’t eat any of the supplies, alright?”

  
Ghost licked his hand. Jon nodded, knowing the wolf would do as he was told, and set off into the wood.

  
Jon followed Ygritte’s footprints, his own boots sticking heavily in the fresh fallen snow. It was hard hiking.

“Ygritte!” he called. Gods, how long had that woman walked? 

Jon paused to catch his breath, leaning against a great tree. He hoped she was alright. Gods he hoped she was alright. He stood up and called again “Ygrit-”

A twig snapped, the forest slanted, and dizziness stole the word from Jon’s mouth and the air from his lungs. There was a pain in his ankle. He breathed heavy and opened his eyes; the world was upside down and seemed to be rotating slowly. What had happened?

  
Jon took a moment to catch his breath and get his wits back. Then he realized -

  
_A trap. I stepped right into a rope trap._

  
Jon mentally kicked himself. He hadn’t made such a clumsy mistake since he was near a babe. Ygritte would be laughing her ass off at him for weeks.

  
Still...he needed her help. It would be worth the embarrassment if the blood would stop rushing to his head.

  
“Ygritte! If you’re out there, I need help! I -”

  
Jon stopped. As the world spun, he caught sight of the symbol cut into the tree he was hanging from.

  
It wasn’t unusual for hunters to mark their traps. To warn each other not to take the animals caught there, not to steal each other’s work.

  
But this symbol was different. It was hard, and sharp, and though Jon couldn’t read southern letters, he knew what that symbol meant.

  
_Crows._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some translations
> 
> Zawǝla - I swear
> 
> Sathéithei, tishinka. - Of course, little wolf. 
> 
> The symbol Jon sees in the tree is just a roughly carved "NW"


	9. Crow

Jon knew he had to work fast. The Crow that set this trap could be back at any time.

He drew his bone knife from his furs and strained to reach the rope around his ankle. It tightened as he struggled, making the pain worse and worse.

Finally, he grabbed hold of the rope, and began to saw through it.

_Quickly, quickly._

Part of the rope snapped free.

_Yes, almost there -_

“Drop the knife,” came a cold voice behind him.

Jon froze. He was facing the wrong way, could only see the black shadow cast on the snow.

Jon didn’t stop cutting.

“I said drop it!”

The rope spun enough that Jon could make out the shape of the Crow, tall and dark and horrible.

Jon tightened his grip on the knife.

There was no reason to let this Crow know he understood.

 _“Ila dahá, kithi! Lené nukwíthla, zdake!”_ Jon spat.

The Crow just smiled coldly.

“I know you speak common.”

_Shit._

“I heard you calling for your friend. Now, drop the knife.”

Jon breathed hard, trying not to panic.

The Crow huffed out a quiet, icy laugh. 

“I was hoping for dinner, but I guess a Wildling’s fine a catch as any." 

The Crow stalked towards Jon.

"We hear you’ve all been meeting in the woods, hear that you’re planning something. I could cut you down, we could have a nice conversation about it, and I’ll promise not to hurt you.”

The Crow came closer.

“But for that to happen, you need to drop the knife. _Now._ ”

The Crow’s voice was steel.

Jon was lightheaded. The pain in his ankle was incredible.

But he could still fight. He just needed to wait for the rope to spin him the right - there!

“Drop the -”

Jon threw his knife at the Crow’s heart.

It flew wide, burying itself in the snow.

The cold smile dropped off the Crow’s face and he stormed over, drawing his sword.

Fear cut deep through Jon's belly.

He tried to grab at the sword before the Crow could gut him.

The Crow swiftly cut through the rope trap.

Jon hit the ground hard. Something in his shoulder snapped.

The Crow sheathed his blade, walked over to where Jon lay on the ground, and sat on top of him. Using both legs and arms to hold him in place, he started tying Jon's hands.

Jon kicked, struggled, spat in the Crow’s eyes. The Crow barely seemed to notice.

Jon worked his good arm free and scratched the Crow’s face so hard it drew blood.

 _This_ the Crow noticed.

“Fuck!” the Crow cried, clutching at the cuts.

Jon tried to use the distraction to force his way out of the hold, but the Crow reacted quickly, putting his hands back down to hold Jon tight.

There were three ragged bloody scratches cross the Crow’s cheek.

The Crow held Jon’s wrists together, the rope almost fully tied.

Jon knew when that happened, the fight was good as lost.

One of the Crow’s hands drifted too close to Jon’s mouth, and he bit down hard between the Crow’s thumb and first finger.

Through the Crow’s glove, Jon tasted blood.

“Seven fucking hells!”

The Crow loosened his hold again, and this time Jon struggled free.

He staggered to his feet and started to run, ankle screaming -

The Crow tackled him, pinning him up against the great tree.

He held Jon there with one forearm, using his other hand to finish tying the rope. Jon kicked at the Crow's shins, tried to bite at his ears. But the Crow was older, stronger, and Jon knew he had lost. Then -

The Crow stopped moving. For a moment, out of sheer surprise, so did Jon. What had happened?

The Crow was staring at something. Jon followed his eyes.

The wolf pendant. It had been knocked from his furs during the fight, and now lay twisted, askew, at his shoulder.

The Crow reached out towards it -

 _“Don’t touch that!”_ Jon shouted.

The Crow looked at him, his eyes harsh.

“Where did you get this?”

“It’s mine!”

“Tell me who you stole it from!”

“I said it’s mine!”

“If you fucking Wildlings are robbing graves -”

“Fuck you, it was my mother’s!”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not fucking lying, you fucking Crow!”

“You -”

Something passed across the Crow’s face.

He grabbed Jon’s chin and stared at him hard.

He stared for a long moment. 

Slowly, the Crow’s eyes lost their harshness and instead there was...was that shock? Or fear? Or sadness?

Jon didn’t know. He had no idea what the Crow saw in his face.

But it was the perfect distraction for Jon to rear his head back and send it crashing hard into the Crow’s skull.

The Crow staggered, and though Jon's head rung as well, he brought his knee up sharp between the Crow’s legs. The Crow fell back into the snow moaning, and Jon _ran._

The pain in his ankle was blinding, he worried he was trailing blood, but Jon knew he didn’t have long before the Crow came after him.

He tried to take care while he ran to only step where he had stepped before, to not give the Crow any new snow tracks to follow.

But he was so lightheaded, and he knew soon he’d start staggering.

His old tracks passed close to a large pine tree, and Jon began to climb, the pain in his shoulder and ankle near unbearable. He found a large branch, and tried to settle into it, making himself as small as possible.

After a few minutes, the Crow passed under him. The scratches Jon had left on his face looked angry in the harsh sunlight.

Jon tried not to move, not to breathe.

He was sure the Crow would see that slight misstep he’d made, see that drop of blood in the snow.

But the Crow passed under him, going further off into the wood.

Jon let himself breathe.

He stayed in that tree the rest of the day and through the night.

* * *

The new day was dawning, and with it came new snow. It would cover any tracks well enough.

Jon carefully picked his way down the branches of the pine, trying not to further damage his shoulder or ankle. He collapsed for several long moments when he got to the ground. He never wanted to get up.

No, he had to keep moving, or else be frozen here. Nothing killed like the cold.

He stood and trudged through the snow. He was trying to come back the way he had came, to his and Ygritte’s cave. But the snow was falling so thick, and he’d gotten turned around, and he was so tired.

Shouldn't he have been there by now? Where was Ygritte, where was Ghost?

Maybe the Crow had found them both. Maybe they were already dead.

The thought was too much.

Jon tripped, and fell in the snow. He lay there for...he didn’t know how long.

Maybe he could just sleep here. Just for a little while -

He smelled the trees, the ice, the blood from his shoulder.

A tongue was licking him. He felt fur.

He slept.

* * *

When Jon awoke, he was still tired, still in pain. But there was warmth at his side.

He opened his eyes. He was back in the cave, Ghost next to him. Ygritte was staring out at the snow.

She looked exhausted.

“Ygritte -”

She turned quickly and rushed to him, emotion written across her face.

“Oh thank all the gods you’re awake.”

She lifted his good hand and kissed it.

“I’m so sorry I left you yesterday morning, a Crow was patrolling and I got stuck hiding from him.”

“I know,” Jon rasped, “I met him.”

Ghost was licking at his neck. Jon lifted his good arm to give him a grateful pat.

“Thank the gods you got away.” There were tears in her eyes. “Gods, I was so scared Jon. I thought I’d never see you again. If Ghost hadn’t shown me where you were, I don’t know that I would have found you.”

She gave him her waterskin, he drank from it gratefully.

She looked so tired. He felt so tired.

“Can we -” Jon rasped. “Can we just rest for a while? Ghost will keep watch.”

Ygritte looked relieved.

“I’d like that.”

She lay down beside him in the cave and they slept as the snow fell outside.

* * *

Things were less grim when they’d finally both had a full night of sleep.

Jon’s ankle was badly twisted, but they were pretty sure it wasn’t broken. He wrapped it tightly and was able to more or less walk on it provided he took his time.

His shoulder was dislocated, and there was a nasty deep gash on his upper arm. But Ygritte helped him pop his shoulder back in, and the gash had for the most part stopped bleeding.

They made their way back to camp, keeping one eye out for Crows. They took their time and traded stories on the way.

Jon told Ygritte about his fight with the Crow; she was especially thrilled that Jon had marked up his face. Ygritte told Jon about how she and Ghost had searched for him in the snow, and how she’d dragged him back to the cave using the sled meant for the meat they’d killed.

Eventually, finally, they were in sight of camp. Jon and Ygritte shared a sigh of relief.

People came rushing up to meet them; they had after all been gone three days longer than expected.

They warned the elders about the Crow nearby. The elders were properly worried by this, and decided to increase patrols around the camp.

Jon was sent to Ulelda. She looked over his ankle and shoulder, rewrapped his wounds, cleaned the deep cut and sewed it shut, and gave him various poultices to smear on his injuries.

And then finally they were in Jon’s hut, lying beside each other, bone tired, sharing an unspeakable happiness at being home.

Ygritte shifted. “I still don’t understand how you got away.”

“I told you," Jon said sleepily. "He thought I’d stolen my pendant from somewhere, we argued about it, and it distracted him long enough for me to hit him and run.”

“But why the hell would a Crow get upset by a damn necklace? Why would he care? Why would he even notice it?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

Ygritte breathed low. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”

In truth, Jon didn’t either. The Crow had been too angry, too disturbed, too...something Jon couldn’t quite name.

The haunted look in the Crow’s eyes followed Jon into his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> Ila dahá, kithi! Lené nukwíthla, zdake! - Fuck you, crow! Get out of here, fucker!


	10. Interlude - Benjen

Grey eyes followed Benjen Stark the entire way to the Wall.

He’d tried to shake the encounter for days. He’d met back up with Jaremy and Jafer and given them his formal report. That he’d caught a Wildling, had tried to question it, that it had fought him off.

The other two Rangers had listened and enjoyed a bit of a laugh at Benjen’s expense when they saw his injuries.

"Bites and scratches? Was it giving you love marks?" Jaremy had cackled.

"Aye, 'tis about time stoic old Benjen forgot his vows. Is that why you let it go, because it showed you a good time?" Jafer had joined.

If Benjen had been a lesser man, these japes might have wounded his pride. But he was First Ranger of the Night’s Watch, and he commanded the respect of these men. He could endure some light teasing.

In a landscape so harsh and far from home, Benjen knew the simple cheer of jokes could keep men’s hearts from freezing.

The wind was ice and the food was sparse and the people they fought were more beast than man. The Night’s Watch needed civilizing things, like respect and formality and humor, else they’d all be driven insane.

Benjen trusted his Rangers with his life. He trusted them with the lives of all his fellows. He trusted them with the lives of every man, woman, and child in the Seven Kingdoms.

Yet he didn’t tell them about the wolf pendant, or that written across the Wildling boy’s features he'd seen _Stark_.

Benjen told himself it was because these details were insignificant. Wildlings were thieves by nature. Due to the Stark legacy, wolf sigils were common in the North. The boy could have picked it up anywhere.

And after all, dark hair and dark eyes were not exactly uncommon.

Besides, there were greater things to worry about. Whispers were reaching the Wall that the Wildlings were stirred up, making alliances with each other. That never boded well for the Watch.

And what worried Benjen even more was the _reason_ they were stirred up. There had been reports of legendary monsters, of the wights and White Walkers of myth returning at last.

The part of Benjen that had been raised as a Lord’s son and educated by a maester of the Citadel knew these stories were nonsense. He knew that men could see anything when they got cold enough, knew how hallucinations often set in as the ice stole someone’s senses.

But another part of Benjen, the part that remembered old stories and had ranged Beyond the Wall near twenty years, the part that sometimes felt cold eyes looking at him through the trees, eyes that seemed to vanish whenever he tried to look too close -

So yes, there were greater things to worry about than some Wildling thief. The best thing to do would be to set it out of his mind. To focus on getting he and his men back to the Wall safely, and compiling a report of their expedition for the Lord Commander.

But whenever Benjen lay down on the hard ground to gain a few hours rest, he thought of those warm grey eyes.

_Lyanna’s eyes._

In the moments between sleep and wakefulness, when Benjen let himself dream, he knew where he’d seen that pendant before. He remembered watching Mikken at the forge craft something impossibly small and delicate. He remembered his sister hugging their father when he gifted it to her on her nameday. He remembered it bouncing round her neck as she rode around Winterfell.

She’d been wearing it when they’d all gone to the tourney at Harrenhal, when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen had crowned her queen of love and beauty and started the war that killed half of Benjen’s family.

This thought forced Benjen into greater wakefulness and he scrubbed a hand across his face, wincing when he touched the scratches there.

He didn’t want to think on this. On bloodlines and children and who should have babes with who. That way always led to trouble. And he had a grander mission now.

He was a man of the Night’s Watch. He would not let himself be distracted. Even if the necklace was Lyanna’s, it had likely been buried with her in the crypts at Winterfell. He’d been fighting Wildlings long enough to know they wouldn’t balk at robbing graves.

 _But how could Wildlings sneak into the crypts without being noticed?_ He thought as he cooked breakfast one morning. _And what was the likelihood of the boy having both Lyanna’s pendant and her eyes? How could -_

“Benjen, those sausages are well past done.”

Benjen shook himself, apologized for burning breakfast, and sat down to eat with his fellows.

 _It wasn’t just her eyes._ Benjen thought as he was rubbing down his horse that evening.

Beneath the skins and the snow and the long wild bush of black hair, the boy had a Stark jaw, a Stark nose, a Stark brow. The boy’s face had the features Benjen had seen in himself, in his father, his brothers, his nephews. Features Benjen had seen embroidered on a hundred tapestries and painted in a hundred histories and carved into a hundred statues in the great crypts of Winterfell.

With a wash and a brush and a change of clothes, the boy would look right at home feasting at the high table beside the Lord of Winterfell himself, Benjen’s brother Eddard.

 _Ned_. Benjan thought as he rode in the morning light.

For years there had been rumors that his brother had secretly given a bastard he'd fathered to the Night’s Watch. Benjen knew these rumors greatly disturbed Ned’s wife, the Lady Catelyn, but almost no one took this story seriously. Anyone who had ever met Ned for a moment could see how seriously he took his vows. He would never dishonor his wife by fathering a bastard.

But perhaps he had. Maybe this boy was Ned’s unwanted issue, escaped from a miserable childhood at the Watch to join the Wildlings. That would explain the Stark look.

_But the necklace..._

How old was the boy? Younger than twenty certainly. How long ago had Robert’s Rebellion been? How long since Prince Rhaegar Targaryen had left his wife, abducted Lyanna, and set Westeros ablaze?

 _Perhaps Lyanna had borne a bastard._ Benjen thought as he stood guard, night wind cold around him. _But when?_

Lyanna had been so young before the rebellion, and besides, Benjen would have noticed. It was difficult, after all, for a woman to conceal a bastard.

There wouldn’t have been time. No time for her to carry a bastard before Prince Rhaegar stole her away. _Unless -_

“Seven hells Benjen, you planning to ride your horse into that pit?”

Benjen looked down. He was atop his horse, an old wildling trap dug directly in front of them. He looked up. The sun was shining. The Wall loomed large on the horizon. When had that happened?

The horse was whinnying, confused.

“Sorry old girl,” Benjen said, patting her side. “Don’t know what came over me.”

Jaremy and Jafer were looking at him with concerned eyes.

“Are those wounds of yours alright?” Jafer asked. “Any infection?”

“No, I’m quite alright,” Benjen promised.

“Are you certain? You’ve been in another world for days,” said Jaremy.

“Apologies, I’ve just been thinking on the rumors we’ve heard.”

His men looked doubtful.

“Say something if you need to ride with one of us,” Jaremy insisted. “There’s no shame in taking care of yourself, and it’d be folly to lose our First Ranger to something as common as infection. Especially when we’re only hours from Castle Black.”

“I know. I promise you, I’ll have the maester take a look at me when we return. But I’m alright to ride.”

This assured his fellows, and they rode on.

Benjen forced his thoughts into the present. Whatever he was thinking, about Lyanna and the boy and the long dead Prince Rhaegar, did not matter. He was taking coincidences and rumors and forming wild theories for nothing. Perhaps because he wished to be distracted from the task at hand, from the greater problem of what the Wildlings were plotting.

 _I am a Man of the Night’s Watch, the shield that guards the realms of men, and I will keep my mind to my duty._ Benjen told himself as they rode into Castle Black at twilight.

Some lone Wildling boy meant nothing.

 _But of course he did._ Benjen thought that night in his bunk, face smeared with some lotion from Maester Aemon. If he was somehow Lyanna’s son, the sister he'd loved, the sister he'd lost, _of course he mattered._

 _“It was my mother’s!”_ the boy had cried.

When people spoke of how Lyanna died, they always said simply “on a bed of blood.” What that meant was not generally elaborated on. It was considered too horrible for polite company. Even Ned had not spoken of it, and he had been there, he had brought her body back to Winterfell.

The rumors that Ned gave a babe to the Watch started not long after he’d made that sorrowful journey north.

Part of Benjen wanted to leap from his bed, ride south as hard as he could, and wake Ned from his slumber to ask him, ask him if this were true or if Benjen was just going mad from the cold.

But if it were true, if Lyanna and the Prince had a child, if Ned had hidden it away-

_Ned would have told me._

This was the thought that finally settled Benjen. If such a thing had happened, Ned would have told him.

Ned wouldn’t have told many people. How could he? Robert Baratheon, crowned king right after the rebellion, hated Targaryens so much he’d ordered even their smallest children slaughtered. There would have been no mercy for such a babe.

But Ned would have told Benjen. They trusted each other as only brothers could, as only the final orphaned members of a great house could.

And if Ned had given a boy to the Wall, he would have told Benjen to keep an eye on him. To make sure he was well fed and rested and that he, well, didn’t run off to join the Wildlings.

So clearly, Benjen was simply reading conspiracy from coincidence. He’d concocted a whole grand, ridiculous tale, simply by looking at a wild boy’s eyes.

It was not worth riding down, or sending a raven, or causing any controversy. Benjen would likely not see Ned for another half year at least, and by then Benjen hoped this incident would be forgotten.

No, he wouldn’t think on this any longer.

 _What a fool I am._ Benjen thought, and when grey eyes appeared in his dreams, he forced them away.

* * *

The morning dawned, clear and beautiful, and Benjen, well rested and well fed for the first time in weeks, went to give his ranging report to the Lord Commander.

Mormont, the Old Bear, seemed cheered as he arrived. “Ah, Benjen. How was the wilderness?”

“Exhausting as always,” Benjen said as he sat.

“I assume you’ll have an exciting tale for me?” Mormont said, gesturing at his scratched face.

“Ah, it's nothing. Just some Wildling boy.”

Mormont hummed disapprovingly. “Not often that a Wilding gets the better of a Stark.”

“Yes well, things happen. Let me give you my full report of the -”

“Before we get started.” Mormont pulled a raven’s scroll from his papers. “Speaking of Starks, you’ve been invited back to Winterfell. King Robert is journeying there for a feast as we speak.”

Mormont held the scroll out to Benjen and he stared at it a moment too long before taking it.

“I’m more than willing to allow you to go. Your dedication to the Watch is admirable, and you deserve a brief respite.”

“Thank you, Lord Commander.” Benjen hoped his tone was grateful instead of fretful. _Seems I’ll be seeing my brother much sooner than I thought._ “I look forward to it.”

The Lord Commander smiled.

Benjen blinked and saw grey eyes.


	11. Interlude - Ned

The Hand of the King.

In the pit of his stomach, Eddard had known the moment Robert announced he was coming to Winterfell that this was likely to happen. After good Jon Arryn’s death, the King was in need of a Hand. And Robert disliked traveling so far North.

But now that the words had been spoken, now that Robert had officially asked, now that he couldn’t truly say no lest he risk his honor, Ned felt almost like a man condemned.

The Hand of the King was the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. He spoke with the King’s voice, commanded the King’s armies, drafted the King’s laws. Robert was offering him a responsibility large as the Realm itself. 

But it was the last thing Ned wanted. 

Robert spoke as if ruling as King and Hand would be like the games they had played at as boys, when they were both young and green and knew nothing of the world. 

Ned was wise enough to know it would not. He had seen too many die for the Realm to think rule would be simple.

And if Robert knew what happened all those years ago, if he knew that Ned had deceived him, defied him, when his kingship was still so new the crown had not been forged... 

Robert would not be giving Ned honors, but the King’s justice. A sword at his neck.

Ned wondered what Robert would hate him for more. Allowing Rhaegar’s son to live, or condemning Lyanna’s child to die. 

_Promise me Ned._

Who could place their trust in him? When had he ever kept a promise?

Ned tried to shake himself from thoughts of the past and worries of the future and enjoy the feast at present. There was fine music, fine food, fine ale. People were merry. Robert himself was deep in his cups, enjoying the embrace of a serving girl while Queen Cersei stared on icily. 

The affairs of a royal couple rarely concerned just husband and wife. If he became Hand, their marriage would become his problem. 

The thought was unappealing. 

Ned sat at the high table, deep in his concerns, as the celebration roared around him. He could not wait to retire with his chambers with Cat, perhaps sharing a private drink with Benjen first. 

Benjen had been unusually somber this night. He had walked into the Great Hall with vicious scratches on his face, apparently gained from some savage Wildling. Robert had asked him to regale everyone with the tale, but Benjen had been short with it, leaving Robert to invent some of his own. 

“Out with it Ben,” he had bellowed. “Did you slay a giant and get marked by it’s immense bristly hairs as it fell? Or face a savage warg from the old tales? Or maybe it was an untamed Wildling woman with great big bare tits and nails like little knives? I do love a woman who scratches.”

Ned had seen irritation on his brother’s face, but Benjen was too honorable a man to challenge his king. “Truly, it was a simple a fight with one Wildling, your Grace.”

“Then he must have been a seven foot tall burly barbarian to get away from a Stark and a good Black Brother. Now, reward yourself. Damn your vows for the night and find yourself a warm woman to sink into.”

At this, Benjen had nodded tightly and retreated to a distant corner of the Hall, where he still remained.

Ned looked there now, at Benjen’s drawn face, and thought of the rise of deserters from the Night’s Watch this past year. He thought of the whispered rumors that Wildlings were rising, growing bolder and crueler. 

He knew things were bad at the Wall, and only getting worse, and he would like to hear Benjen’s measure of it. 

He would also like to know why Benjen kept looking up at him strangely. 

Finally, the King drifted off to some bedchamber and the Queen gathered her children up stiffly. Ned’s own children had mostly scampered up to bed, but for his eldest and heir, Robb, who was laughing with the ward, Theon. The Hall was slowly emptying out, and Ned was free to leave his place at the High Table and seek out those he would prefer to spend the evening with. 

He walked over to the far corner of the room where Benjen lurked and finally gave him a true embrace. 

“I’ve missed you Ben.”

“Aye, it’s good to see you too brother.”

Ned felt a true smile come to his face for the first time that evening. He poured two flagons of sweet summer wine and offered one to Benjen, who took it merrily. 

“To the Wall,” Ned toasted. “Long may it hold.”

Benjen grinned. “To Winterfell,” he answered. “Forever may it stand.”

They both drank, long and deep, and Ned was overcome with the feeling of how much he had missed his younger brother. 

“I would be gratified to see you in Winterfell more often. The children love it when you visit.”

Benjen smiled tightly. “I’m needed at the Wall. More than ever these days.”

"Yes, I would like to speak with you on that. It seems that things at the Wall grow ever more severe.”

Ned gestured to the dark scratches marring Benjen’s face. His brother grimaced. 

“This is not - this was not -”

Benjen paused, seeming at a loss for words.

“You can tell me what happened, truly. It is good for the Warden of the North to know what happens at his borders.”

“Then in truth, it was just a fight with a Wildling boy gone badly, nothing more.”

Ned could see with his own eyes there was more to it than that. Something in his brother’s expression seemed to be warring with itself.

Ned looked at Benjen for a moment, but his brother stayed silent.

“Well if you’re certain. I had thought to speak with you and Maester Luwin on some thoughts we had about the land in The Gift, I believe he is still somewhere-”

As Ned turned to look for the maester, Benjen grabbed his shoulder tight. 

Ned looked down at the hand on his shoulder, surprised, but turned back around.

“Not - not yet.”

Ned was concerned now.

“Benjen, truly, if something at the Wall is disturbing you, tell me. It’s my duty as warden of the North-”

“Just,” Benjen cut in, then stopped. He seemed to be steeling his nerves. 

His brother glanced around at the other tables, noting who was still left in the Hall. He downed the rest of his wine in one go, then leaned into Ned and said very quietly...

“The Wildling who gave me these had an interesting pendant. Looked like a little wolf.”

Ned was puzzled. There was some implied question in Benjen’s eyes, but Ned didn’t know the shape of it. “I’m sure Wildlings have all sorts of-”

“His face was interesting too. It reminded me of someone I used to know. In childhood.”

What in the Old Gods name was Benjen....oh... _oh_.

But that was impossible. The child was dead.

But then how did - 

Benjen looked at Ned’s face, at how his words were received, and seemed to see confirmation of a suspicion. His mouth flattened out to a grim line.

Ned himself looked round now, to see if any of the king’s retinue remained. There were a few at the far end of the hall, but most of the remaining revelers were but servants and squires. Still, this was not a conversation for this room.

An impossible hope was rising in Ned's heart.

“We should have another drink in my chambers I think.”

Ned put his flagon down on the long wooden table, barely missing a spider as it skittered away. 

* * *

Ned’s chambers were very private, as befitted a Lord of a great House. But still, he took no chances. This conversation would be dangerous, especially with the King in residence.

He sent his servants away, told the girl at his hearth he would tend his own fire, and set one of his most trusted men outside to guard the door. 

However, before the door to his outer room was even shut, a visitor arrived who would not be easily turned away.

“I would like to get a bit of rest. Can you not speak in the morning?” 

Catelyn was calling from the hallway, clearly annoyed by the presence of a guard. She looked lovely in the candlelight, as she always did, but the sight of her now made Ned’s heart seize.

Benjen tried to save him. 

“Apologies Lady Stark, we have some Night’s Watch affairs to discuss, and I plan to ride for the Wall at first light.”

Catelyn accepted this explanation, and moved forward to embrace Benjen. 

“Then I will likely not see you come morning, so I will say my goodbyes now. You know you are always welcome-”

“Stop,” Ned said suddenly. 

Catelyn looked at him, perplexed. “You wish me to stop well wishes to family?” 

“No I just-”

Now Catelyn could tell something was wrong.

Many years had passed since the Kingsroad, when Ned wondered whether he could trust his wife. Then they had been strangers to each other, thrown together by death and obligation. 

But now she was his wife of near twenty years, a trusted partner in every way that mattered. 

Ned sighed low. “Come in Cat. You should hear this too.”

Cat entered, concern written cross her features. 

“Jory,” Ned addressed their guard. “Let no one in this room until I say so.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Ned nodded, shut the thick wooden door, then barred it for good measure. 

* * *

“I cannot believe you didn't tell me.”

Benjen was pacing around the room, fuming quietly. Catelyn sat by the hearth, staring at the flames, her gaze stern.

“Aye,” she said. “I had hoped a husband would share such important secrets with his wife. Though the insult is slightly lessened by the fact that you did not even trust your own blood.”

Ned stared at his hands. “I thought the truth would put you in danger.”

“The _deed_ put us in danger Ned.” Her voice trembled with a hushed fury.

“I know. But I couldn’t just leave him to die in that bed with Lyanna. I had to put him somewhere.”

“If you told me he was at the Wall, I could have looked out for him.” Benjen’s words were quiet, but his footfalls were heavy on the floor.

“I planned to tell you, when you were more settled at Castle Black. But then the Night Watch's records claimed the child was dead-”

“And did you ever plan to tell me?” Cat refused to look at him. Ned found he could not meet her eyes either.

“As I said, I thought it too dangerous. And especially after I thought the boy dead, it seemed an unneeded weight to burden you with. Both of you.”

Catelyn kept her eyes at the flame.

Ned knew he wouldn’t win back the favor of his wife or his brother tonight, but there were more important matters at hand.

“Do you know that it was her boy? Truly?”

Benjen paused, sighed, and began to pace in the other direction.

“I would recognize that pendant anywhere. He said it belonged to his mother. He had the Stark look, strong as I’ve ever seen it.”

Eddard breathed out. “But how? The records at Castle Black have held him as dead near fifteen years. His name was listed as Jon Snow, they must have thought him my bastard-” Catelyn’s shoulders tensed at this. Ned paused a moment. 

Cat had always hated the rumor that he’d fathered a bastard and given a babe to the Wall. It dishonored her, dishonored their marriage. She felt it lessened her in the eyes of Ned’s bannerman. In the eyes of the North.

Even though now she knew the truth, his actions had started that rumor. He wondered if she could ever forgive him.

Ned looked away as he continued.

“I checked records of the babes kept at Castle Black every six months. They said Jon Snow was dead before he had passed his fourth year there.”

“Aye,” Benjen said. He’d stopped pacing a moment and drummed his fingers on the hearth. “That is the standard recording when a babe is lost in the wood or snatched by Wildlings and not found after a time. Had you talked to me about the boy, I could have told you this.”

"Wildings snatch people from Castle Black itself?"

Benjen's pacing began again.

"It's not common, but it has happened before. Especially with babes. Wildlings are rather known for stealing people."

Ned couldn’t put his emotion to words.

He’d given the boy up for lost, for dead, so long ago. He’d regretted giving the boy the the Watch every single day since he'd done it.

He often had nightmares where Lyanna had handed him the boy, asking Ned to keep him safe, and instead he’d dashed the babe’s little head against the floor. He could still see her sobbing.

But now _the boy was alive_ , and if he was alive, there was hope. His promise to his sister was not yet broken.

“If you find this boy again, you must take him to Castle Black.”

At this, both Benjen and Catelyn turned to stare at him. 

“You say that as if it’s possible,” Benjen said incredulously. 

“It is more than possible, it must happen. The boy must be kept safe. He is part of House Stark.”

Benjen snorted, “You plan to make a lord of him?”

“We should try to give him-”

Benjen finally sat, abruptly, directly across from Ned. His foot tapped rapidly against the floor.

"Ned, have you ever met a Wildling?”

“Of course not.”

“I have. Hundreds of them. And let me tell you, they have earned their name. They are violent, lawless, uncivilized, and completely uncontrollable. They don’t believe in order. If you tried to make one a lord, they would spit in your face.”

“The boy is not a Wildling truly.”

“He is. That is what the boy is now. He wears their clothes, speaks their tongues. He has lived among them most of his life. There will be no taming him."

Ned scoffed. Benjen lent forward.

"Ned, look at my face. Look at my hand. Does this look like the work of a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms? Do these look like the proper courtly fighting moves Ser Rodrik would teach us in the courtyard?”

Looking at the angry red scratches on Benjen’s face and the shockingly deep bite on his hand, Ned had to admit they did not.

“Not a lord then, we could have him kept at the Wall, have him take the Black.”

“Ned, the Wildlings hate the Night’s Watch more than anything else in this entire world. I’m told we are the villains in the horror tales they tell their children.”

“You keep speaking of Wildlings in general, but you have not talked to the boy himself about what _he_ wants. We could find him a place.”

“I am the only one in this room who has met him, and _nothing_ about that meeting makes me think he wants to come to us.”

“So what should we do?” Ned’s voice was edging on too loud. “Leave him beyond the Wall to live out his days among beasts and savages?”

Benjen went still. After a moment, he sighed. “I do not know.”

Ned could not believe his ears. “This is our sister’s child! We can not leave him to the wilderness!”

"He will not come to us! He will not _want_ to come to us!"

"I never thought I would live to see the day when a Stark turned his back on his own blood. If our-"

“We should leave the boy be,” came Cat's voice.

She said it quietly, still sitting by the hearthside. She had been so silent these last several minutes that Ned had near forgotten she was there. 

Ned stared at her back, disbelievingly. “You cannot mean that, Cat.”

Catelyn turned and looked at Ned sharply, meeting his eyes for the first time since he had sat down in this room and begun to tell the whole truth.

“Do you have any idea what you are proposing when you speak of finding that boy?” Her voice sounded dragged over shards of broken glass. 

_“You are proposing hunting down a lost Targaryen.”_

The air left the room. Husband and wife stared at each other. Eventually, Ned looked down.

“Cat, Robert never has to know.”

Catelyn stood, her arms crossed, her eyes like frost.

“I know you have no ear for rumors, but they do spread on the Wall. Else news of your so-called bastard would never have reached me.”

“Cat-”

“What do you think they will say at the Wall when Benjen Stark comes riding in with a Wildling and tries to force him to take the Black?”

“It would not-”

“You speak of making him a lord, but you have no thought to how you would explain him. How would you account for his existence?”

“We could give some other identity, perhaps say he is indeed my bastard.”

A single, sharp laugh cut across Catelyn’s lips at this. There was no mirth in it.

“People will talk. People will wonder. And eventually people will discover the truth. And when they discover the truth, discover that you tried to bring a lost Targaryen back into the Seven Kingdoms, Robert will have you, I, and all of our children _executed_.”

There was no sound but the crackling of the fire. Catelyn continued.

“There is no more dangerous word in the Seven Kingdoms than _Targaryen_. You know there are still many Houses who see Robert as a usurper, many houses who would love to see the Targaryen dynasty restored. You know some of them have tried to accomplish this, seeking out the lost Targaryen children across the sea or searching for minor Targaryen cousins. And you know as well as I that Robert has not been kind to those Houses.”

“It’s not as if I’d be trying to make the boy king,” Ned offered lamely.

“Do you think Robert will see a difference? Do you think you will be able to talk to him, make him see reason?”

Cat’s eyes were cutting deep into Ned. Even Benjen shifted uncomfortably.

“If you truly thought Robert could be talked to mercy, _you would never have hidden that boy in the first place._ ” 

“We could all be killed simply for having this conversation. But I will not allow you to put your trueborn heirs, your children, _our children_ , who trust us and love us...I will not allow you to put them in danger just to help a Wildling boy who has no care for us. Who does not even _know_ us.”

Catelyn sat down heavily and turned back to the fire. No one spoke. After a long moment, Benjen cleared his throat.

“Her points are all well spoken, Ned.”

Ned stared at his hands, turning them over and over. 

_Promise me Ned._

“I cannot bear this.”

_Promise me._

Ned stood.

“By the Old Gods, this boy is _Lyanna’s_. On her deathbed, her one wish was that I keep the boy safe. I promised her. I swore I would do it. And for fifteen years I have been tortured by the thought that I broke her faith, that I betrayed her dying wish. _But the boy lives!_ Lyanna’s little boy. He can still be kept safe. If we leave him there, it will dishonor her memory. Please, we cannot let him die in the wilderness.”

Catelyn was unmoved. Benjen sighed.

“Ned-”

“Benjen. We must help the boy. You have said yourself that the lands beyond the Wall are dangerous, filled with beasts and madmen and monsters. We cannot leave the boy to this.”

At the word “monsters,” something in Benjen’s expression shifted. He looked up suddenly to the window and stared for a long moment. Ned turned and followed his gaze.

There was cold blue frost upon the window pane. The swirling pattern looked somewhat like a pair of eyes.

Benjen sighed.

“Alright,” he said quietly. 

Catelyn did not look at them. 

“If I find the boy beyond the Wall, I will take him to Castle Black. I will find some excuse for it.”

“Truly?” Ned said, hope soaring in his heart

“Truly. You speak rightly, the boy cannot be left beyond the Wall, not now.”

Ned surged to his feet and embraced Benjen. 

“I will stay here at Winterfell. I will help find a boy a place-”

_“No.”_

Ned turned to Cat.

She looked angry, tired, resigned. 

“If I cannot talk you out of this folly, you must at least be smart about it. A few hours ago I planned to ask you to stay here at Winterfell for the rest of your days, but….” she sighed, a long mournful thing.

“If you turn down the King’s offer to be Hand, it will seem suspicious. You must not be suspicious now. You must take special care, be as loyal and true to Robert as possible.”

Cat looked up at him, furious desperation in her eyes.

“If you will not heed my advice and must find this boy, then at least do not put our children in more danger than necessary. Let Benjen deal with the boy. He can find some excuse that does not involve us. And you will go to the capitol, win the King’s favor as his Hand, and place yourself beyond any suspicion. Place our family beyond any suspicion.”

Ned looked at her. She was right. This could put their family in danger, and it was his duty to protect them best he could. Ned's honor would not let him leave the boy, but he could at least give her this.

“Then I will go to King's Landing. I will do everything in my power to keep the children safe.”

Cat grimaced.

“If that were true, you would have never given the boy to the Wall in the first place.”

She stood.

“My lords, I seek my rest.”

She swept from the room and opened the door. She sailed past Jory and disappeared, not once looking at Ned. 

Ned heard her exchanging some words with Maester Luwin in the hall, tell him she would take his council in the morning. Her voice was short, clipped. 

Benjen stood as well, leaving the room with a simple clap on the shoulder and a “Goodnight, brother.”

Ned sat, thinking. 

Night was already turning into morning. Little birds sang in the trees, and spiders spun their webs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That fourth paragraph is a little bit of text from Ned in Game of Thrones (I thought at this point, the two Neds would be having similar thoughts, and I wanted to nod to that.)


	12. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, quick content warning for this chapter. About halfway down while Jon and Orell are talking, Orell makes a reference to a legend with some implied assault. I tried to keep it vague and non graphic, but still thought I should say something.

Everything went wrong at once.

Some miscommunication between Gjala and Harma led to a full quarter of the clan’s recent kills being left out too long and spoiled, unfit for jerking or smoking. They would have to send out more people to hunt, which was increasingly difficult as more and more reports of Crows reached their ears. This would set their departure back two weeks.

Then, two of the large sleds they needed to move supplies were badly damaged in a surprise storm. One was mostly intact, but the other would need to be completely rebuilt. And one of the camp carpenters had just turned his ankle last week, leaving more work to fewer people. This would set them back another two weeks.

Last, word came that Mance would not return for another month at least. After Hardhome, the Thenns had invited him to speak at their Hall, and he rode hard to the west. The camp was hesitant to leave without the chieftain at their side, so it was agreed they would wait for him.

Many in the camp seemed somewhat relieved. Every extra moment of rest and preparation would make the hard journey they faced a bit easier. But Jon was uneasy. He wanted, needed to speak with Mance. Jon needed to tell him about the strange encounter with the Crow, needed to ask him why a Crow would care about his pendant.

The Crow had recognized it. Jon worried about what that meant, if it meant the necklace was some Crow thing, some southern thing. If that meant he was some southern -

 _I’m not a southerner._ Jon repeated this in his mind over and over for days, for weeks. _I’m not a southerner, I’m a man of the Free Folk._

Jon told himself his mother had been a great raider, capturing southern treasures and giving them to the clans. Or maybe his mother had been a respected Crowkiller, taking their trinkets as trophies of her victories. Perhaps she’d even been in one of the fearsome cannibal clans, and she’d found it on some fat southern lord who became dinner.

There were a thousand explanations for how his mother possessed a southern pendant.

But Jon could not explain the way the Crow had looked at his face.

_I’m not a southerner. I’m not._

Southerners were cruel and stern and pitiless. They’d stolen good lands from those who’d worked it thousands of years. They sent their vicious Crows into lands the Free Folk were left with and hunted them, so that most were afraid to stay in one place too long. They’d doomed Jon’s people to hard lives in the cold, and still seemed unsatisfied.

He thought of Uja, who told jokes and made honeycakes. There were four southern Crow arrows in her when they found her body.

He thought of Vorn, who loved to wrestle and carved animal toys for the children. He’d been barely clinging to life when they found him, holding in his guts after a southern Crow sword tore through his body. All of Ulelda’s magics and skills couldn’t save him.

He thought of Wise Mother Majar. She’d been their wise woman before Ulelda, and Jon had faint memories where she held him on her knees, telling him sweet little tales about magical animals and trees that granted wishes. The southern Crows had taken her prisoner, and no one had ever seen her again. Rumors said she died in their black castle, of torture or hunger or both.

Good people stolen from life, simply because the southerners and their lords would not be happy until the Free Folk were all dead.

_I am not a southerner. I’m not. I could not come from those monsters._

He needed Mance back. He needed Mance to finally _finally_ tell him about his parents. Needed Mance to ruffle his hair and say fondly that this was all nothing, that he’d let his fool imagination run away from him again. He needed Mance to tell him everything was alright.

That everything would be alright.

Jon kept his days full of work and his nights full of Ygritte. It was useless to think on this now. He’d put it aside until Mance got back.

Yet Jon’s dreams, wolf eyes or no, were full of Crows.

* * *

_The snow was falling thick and fast, and the wolf could see nothing. Ice clung to his fur. His paws were numb. But he still must run, must run or black shadows overhead would pick apart his pack mates._

_Talons snatched at his tail, at his eyes. They cut into his leg, spilled red onto white snow. Then they were upon him. One was gentle, but the other was vicious, and the wolf snatched at it with his teeth until he caught wing and tasted blood. But the talon sliced into his throat, and his fur was **red red red -**_

“Ghost!” Jon cried, sitting bolt upright. “Ghost, come here!”

Jon’s heart hammered in his chest, his breath came quick and heavy.

Jon could still feel the pain in his neck, the blood hot on his skin. Where was Ghost?

Jon couldn’t see him, _couldn’t smell him._

“Ghost!”

A wet nose touched his cheek, followed by a comforting lick. Jon hugged Ghost close and buried his face in the pup’s fur, nearly crying in relief.

There was no blood, no cut at his neck. Ghost was here, safe in their hut.

Jon’s heartbeat slowed, his breaths evened out.

What was that? Not a wolf dream, but too intense for a nightmare.

It had been snowing in the dream. Jon stood, one hand still in Ghost’s fur, and made his way to the door.

The snow was packed and dirty. There'd been no storm.

* * *

“It wasn’t anything.” Orell was sitting on a stump outside his home, whittling at something. Said he was preparing for the journey west. Jon thought he was just trying to look busy.

“Then why did it feel so real? I could feel the pain, feel the blood.” Jon rubbed at his neck.

“I don’t need to be bothered with your nightmares, I’ve got work to do.”

Jon gritted his teeth, but pressed on.

“The day before I saw the Crow, I dreamt I was Ghost and a crow with fangs was chasing us.”

Orell said nothing, just kept peeling long strips of wood with his knife.

“I’ve heard that some wargs have the greensight, can see the future in a way.”

“Aye.”

Orell did not elaborate, did not even look up.

“Well maybe I have it.”

Orell snorted.

“If you have the greensight, I’ll cut off my own arse and eat it.”

Jon flushed with anger.

“Why couldn’t I have it?”

“Greensight’s rare, idiot. Most wargs never have more than one or two green dreams in a lifetime, if they have any at all. Maybe one in a hundred wargs has true green dreams regularly, and those wargs tend to be those with the strongest magic.”

“So?”

“So.” Orell met Jon’s eyes, a stuck-up look on his face. “I warged for the first time at seven years and made my first bond with an animal by nine. I’ve heard of wargs that gained the gift even younger, who leapt into dogs when they were two bite their parents during tantrums. You didn’t even have your first animal dream until you were, what, fifteen? You could never make proper connections with any of the animals I brought, even easy ones like mice and rabbits. I half thought you were making the whole thing up for attention. You only now just made your first real bond with an animal, and you’re well past a man. Yet you still can’t even warg with the beast properly, only at night, like a little babe. So if any warg here was like to have the greensight, it’d be me, not you.”

Jon’s fingernails cut into the palms of his hands.

“So what was the dream then?” he asked tightly.

Orell turned back to his whittling. “I’m not here to nurse southern boys through nightmares.”

“I’m not southern!” Jon said with a sudden, angry step forward.

"Yes, 'cause 'Jon' is a real common Free Folk name, you hear it so often round the bonfire," Orell mocked. "And you were brought here by a southerner. Or do you still tell yourself some little child's tale about Mance finding you on the back of a talking snow bear or picking you as a babe from a weirwood tree?"

Jon's face flushed deep red and he felt his lips curl. “I’m blood of the First Men, else I wouldn’t be able to warg at all. They hunt and kill wargs south of the Wall, they don’t pass the gift on.”

“Aye, they kill the common wargs,” Orell stood with a horrible grin. He and Jon were nose to nose.

“But there’s plenty of southern kings and lords who’d love to steal northern magic for themselves. You ever hear of the Warg King? Marched on the Starks with thousands of men, thousands of beasts, but the Starks killed him, and all his sons too.”

Jon could feel Orell’s breath on his face, smell the stink of it.

“Stark slaughtered them to the last man, but kept all his daughters alive as tortured prizes. Forced those girls to bear him warg children who’d be slaves to the will of the Winter Kings. Maybe that’s what you are. Some half whelp southern lord's son, meant to take scraps from the table and serve as the master’s dog-”

Jon reared his fist back and punched Orell hard in the nose. It hit with a horrible crack, and Orell stumbled backward with a grunt of pain.

“You little fucking shit!” Blood was dripping from Orell’s nose to his mouth in a steady stream, catching in his teeth. “I think you fucking broke it!”

“Good! Now you’ll have a great swollen beak to match your fucking ugly eagle!”

Jon turned and started walking towards home. He heard a screech. He knew that screech.

Jon looked back quickly. Orell’s eyes were white.

Suddenly Jon’s face was full of wings and talons and a sharp sharp beak. He threw his arms up, trying to protect his face, his eyes, from being clawed to pieces. Blood ran down his arms.

Then, suddenly as it had begun, the wings and talons were gone. Orell’s eagle soared back to the treetops.

Orell was glaring, rubbing the side of his face. A giant red handprint was at his cheek.

Glebd stood over him, glowering.

“For the sake of all the gods, pull yourself together! You too!” He swung around glared at Jon.

“That little brat-”

“Aye he’s a brat, but he’s also seven years your junior. I don’t care about whatever useless squabble you have going, I don’t want my young sons up at night screaming about how great dirty eagles are going to attack them from the sky.”

“And I better not catch you -” he continued harshly, pointing at Jon, “going after him,” Glebd jabbed his thumb back at Orell, “with that ratty wolf of yours. I’ve lived this long without watching a direwolf eat a man, and I don’t plan for that to change just because the two of you beastlings are in a pissing match.”

“He told me I was souther-”

“I don’t fucking care! You want to fight? Put that to good use and join the night patrols, don’t just scrap with each other like mindless animals!”

Gledb stormed off, muttering about useless wargs and magic users, and Orell and Jon were left staring at each other. Orell pinched the bridge of his nose, Jon clutched at the cuts on his arms.

Finally Orell stormed past Jon with a whispered, dangerous, “Stay the fuck away from me!”

* * *

“These are not too deep,” Ulelda said as she examined Jon’s arms a few hours later. “They won’t scar. But you’re lucky the eagle did not have time to fully attack your face.”

Jon sighed. He should join Gledb’s patrol for a few nights. He didn’t particularly like the man; Gledb had been one of Mance’s fiercest rivals. But without him, Orell could have gone much further. Jon owed him a debt.

Ulelda was rubbing something on Jon’s arms that stung a bit. Jon knew Orell had been here to see her just before him. He looked at the wise woman sideways.

“Did I break his nose?” Jon asked quietly, guiltily, hopefully.

“No.”

Damn it.

Disappointment must have shown in Jon’s face, because Ulelda looked up at him suddenly with a reprimand in her eyes.

“That is a good thing, Jon. You’re lucky he’s not badly hurt. Just as he’s lucky that you’re not badly hurt.”

“I know.”

“Hmmm.” Jon flushed, a bit ashamed.

Ulelda finished with his arms and stood. “I would like to see how your shoulder and ankle are healing while you’re here. Is that all right?”

Jon nodded, still a bit too embarrassed to meet her eyes. She took off his boots and started rubbing at his ankle. The touch was relaxing. Ulelda’s entire home was relaxing. It was a bit larger than most homes in camp, with plenty of room for clay jugs filled with strange substances and dried herbs that hung from the rafters. Shelves were stacked with mysterious and fascinating objects Jon could not identify. There were rune spells carved into the walls and antlers over the door, the room smelled of pine and heather, even the firelight seemed brighter.

“Why did you and Orell fight?” Ulelda asked as she worked at Jon’s ankle.

Jon huffed. “He hates me.”

“He dislikes you, certainly.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You’ve always been an eager, perfect student?”

Jon rubbed his neck.

“Yes?”

She hummed.

“Well before I found Ghost maybe not, but that was before. I didn’t understand.”

Ulelda sighed.

“It’s to be expected. You have the look of a man, but you’re still very much a boy.”

Jon started to bristle at this, but then Ulelda continued, “As is Orell. Truthfully, I wish Mance had come to me when you started showing your gift. I believe he suspected I was too busy with other duties. But I would have happily helped you. It's important for people to train their gifts, understand them. Orell is a good warg, but not a teacher, not yet. Young wargs often become needlessly combative. As do young men.”

Jon looked at the elderly woman as she worked in the firelight. “I didn’t know you were a warg.”

“I’m not. But I've seen many wargs grow in my lifetime, and I know your magic. It’s tied to the trees, the weirdwoods, the gods of the forest. If you have questions, I'd be happy to try to answer them.”

Jon brought a hand into his curls. “I think I might be having green dreams.”

Ulelda sat down across from him. “Alright. Describe them.”

“They’re like my wolf dreams, but similar. I am Ghost, but I don’t see what he’s chasing or hunting or doing. I see other things. Before I was caught by the Crow, I dreamed of a crow snatching at me. And last night I dreamed of crows again, and they hurt me. I mean, him.”

“Hmm. Seems a bit ominous. Are you certain it's not a lingering nightmare from your fight with the Crow?”

“It felt too real, when I woke I was in pain. I still feel it.” Jon rubbed at his neck.

“Hmmm.” Ulelda considered him for a long moment. There was a noise at the door. When she went to open it, Ghost ambled in, and settled at Jon’s feet.

Ulelda seemed to come to a decision.

“I would like to try something with you, Jon.”

* * *

The home was filled with a warm hazy smoke that smelled like sweet dirt. Jon breathed it in contentedly as he lay on Ulelda’s floor, his second self warm and furry beside him.

Ulelda had been heavy with warnings before they started. She said this could help determine if he was indeed having green dreams, could help open them up to him. However, she’d also said he might see true terrors, said his wits would be addled for the next several hours. She asked him three times if she was sure before she set the herbs burning and fed him the dried mushrooms.

But Jon felt _wonderful_. He felt like he did after sex with Ygritte, warm and lazy and content. He felt like he’d just made a fresh kill, elk blood hot and lush in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth.

“Many say wargs and those they bond with share a soul,” Ulelda said above him. Her voice was steady and soothing. “That the warg and the animal will be part of each other forever.”

Jon nodded drowsily. He knew this. Ghost’s heart was beating in time with his own.

“Jon, I want you to think about how it feels to run through the forest as a wolf.”

That was easy. Jon could feel the snow under his paws, smell the prey hiding in the bushes.

“I want you to smell the trees Jon.”

Yes, yes Jon smelled pine and spruce and oak and maple. _And weirwood, weirwood_. They smelled old and dark and true.

“The roots of the trees grow deep. Lay down at these roots. Go into the roots and the leaves and the limbs.”

A powder was beneath his nose, and Jon was at the tree where he’d met the other half of himself.

He lay his head at the roots and let them claim him.

* * *

  
_The wolf was in a man’s place. A place with the hard grey smell of stone and the cold sharp smell of steel. But he could see the trees, his place, on the horizon. He leapt to them...and was pulled back harshly._

_A chain was at his throat._

_The wolf growled and shook and clawed at himself till blood ran down his neck. He could not free himself._

_The wolf grew hungry and cold and the man’s place grew ever darker. He whimpered._

_A boy in black scratched at his ears, and pointed at a door. The wolf ran for it, and found himself back in his woods._

_But still the chain dragged behind him._

_The wolf came to a familiar place, a place by the sea he’d seen when he’d been a boy named Jon. Crows flew behind him. The smell of salt stung the air, and a kind woman in oyster shells gave him a bone. He took it, but it tasted of something dark, something terrible. He looked up at the woman, her face was a skull covered in ice._

_The ice followed him._

_He ran to another place, chain heavy behind him, catching on stumps and stones. He was in a place where towers touched the sky, where his littermates played in the yard. They did not know him. Many stared. One ran. One nuzzled him, blood leaking from its side. Another bared its fangs._

_A boy crow watched him from the tower. The wolf bared its teeth, then saw there was nothing to fear. But the light hit the crow differently, and the wolf backed away with a whine._

_The crow cawed. It fell from the tower. It did not fly._

_The ice crept slowly cross the ground._

_A boy’s voice in his ear asked, “Who are you?”_

_There was a roar overhead. A great beast of fire soared in the sky, turning all he’d seen to ash. The wolf ran, but the chain was too heavy, and the fire was on him._

_As it burned him, image after image flew quickly before his eyes; three great cats eating their young, a horse with braided hair that swept the ground, a spider trying to catch a bird in his web, a stag and wolf dead on the ground, a prince with white hair who stared at nothing, blood on the floor, blood on the bed, blood on the blankets, blood everywhere._

* * *

It took Jon a rather long time to come out of it. The world still felt somewhat unreal around him as Ulelda fed him nuts and flatbread and fresh goat's milk and told him to tell all he remembered.

It took a while. It was hard for him to describe it, what he'd seen and felt with wolf eyes. And the smell of the powered weirwood leaves Ulelda had used to help send him under kept hitting and and sending him half back towards dreaming. Uleda was frequently snapping and clapping in front of his face to regain his attention.

But Ulelda was patient, and they took it slowly.

He told her of the chain and the trees and the man’s place and the wolves and the crows, and she listened and nodded along. As they went, she said these, indeed, sounded like green dreams. Said these things could be of the past or future, of himself or others. It was important not to let himself be too taken by them, not to let them rule his life, not to spend endless hours interpreting them. Rather, he should take the feeling of the dream and let it offer him simple guidance.

And then Jon reached the end of it.

“And after I saw the crow fall, after the ground froze, there was something firey in the sky. I’ve never seen anything like it before, I don’t know what it was.”

“Well, if you had to guess, what would you say it was?”

Jon shrugged.

“Let’s try this. On the count of three, tell me what you saw. Don’t think, just speak. What did you see? One, two, three-”

“A dragon."

Ulelda paused.

“A dragon?”

“Yes.” Oddly, Jon was certain now. _Yes, it had been a dragon._

Ulelda seemed unsure what to do with this.

“Dragons are not of the north. They’re not of any part of this land. They’re from another place, another time. It’s not...common to see such a thing. Are you certain?”

Jon nodded. Ulelda hummed.

“Let me know immediately if you dream of dragons again. I don’t know much of them, but I know dragons were old, chaotic magic. And I know that often where dragons go, nothing good follows.”

* * *

Jon was surprised when he left Ulelda’s that the sun was still in the sky. He’d felt he’d been in her home forever.

He went back to his own hut and lay in his furs. Normally he’d feel lazy sleeping while the sun was out, but he’d felt he’d run a thousand miles and a thousand years, and he needed rest.

Many, many hours later, Ygritte was shaking him awake.

“Wha-what is it?”

“Get dressed. There’s a search party.”

Jon sat up quickly. “Who’s missing?”

“Gledb’s patrol was supposed to trade out with second watch at midnight. That was at least three hours ago, and they haven’t come back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orell's charming Warg King anecdote is from World of Ice and Fire.
> 
> The scene where Jon is frantically looking for Ghost after his dream is inspired by the scene from Clash of Kings where Jon does the same thing and it's sad and adorable.


	13. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Just letting you know there's some gore and people on fire in this chapter in case that's not your thing!

It was cold.

Jon knew cold well, it was a constant companion for the Free Folk. But this was cold as he’d rarely felt before. This was cold that burned in his lungs, his mouth, his nose, every time he drew breath. This was cold that froze in his beard and eyelashes. Cold that made even his snot and spit and tears turn to ice.

The last time he felt cold like this…

Jon thought of little Uli crawling towards him with her insides spilling out. He thought of blue eyes in the trees.

And he trembled from more than just cold.

The wind that whistled in the camp had turned to shrieking in the wood. And yet there was mist in the trees, thick as bear fur. Even with his torch lighting the way, it was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of his nose.

Jon looked to Ygritte beside him, hoping the sight of her would ground him, comfort him. But her own torch cast dark shadows on her face, her eyes were wide around the pupils, and below the flush of the chill her face was whiter than snow.

There were six in Glebd’s patrol, none had returned. There were twenty in their group.

Jon tried to breathe even. Twenty could find six, could _fight_ six if-

Jon heard a crack behind him and jumped, turning fast. Just Harma, stepping on a twig

“Keep your torches lit at all times,” someone was saying. “Keep them high. Stay together, and if you see anything, anything at all, speak up.”

There were other words said, but Jon did not hear them. His heart was pounding in his ears. There was no other sound.

_I am a man of the Free Folk. This is part of what that means. Being brave to keep the camp safe._

He fidgeted with the bow at his shoulder, shifted his shoulders to make sure the spear was still strapped to his back.

The mist seemed to grow thicker and thicker, until Jon could barely see Ygritte at all, only the vague yellow light from her torch. The wind seemed muffled suddenly, and no animals or birds moved in the trees. Even the smells seemed frozen, buried under a thick layer of ice.

Nothing to see, nothing to smell, nothing to hea-

“Here!” something called in the darkness, and Jon nearly lost his footing. A hazy torchlight waved, and the other torches made their way towards it.

When Jon was nearly there, he stepped on something. He looked down to see what it was, bringing his torch low to the ground.

A dead animal’s eyes stared up at him.

“It’s the dogs!” someone, perhaps Harma, was saying. “Gledb’s dogs! They’ve been torn to pieces!”

At council, Chieftain Elrine had spoken of her niece, torn apart, remains left in a strange spiral.

“Everyone get close together! If we can get more light -”

A sharp scream pierced through the darkness.

Jon waved his torch, this way and that.

He couldn’t see any monster in the dark, couldn’t see any blue eyes.

Jon quickly counted the torchlights. There were nineteen.

“Get together in a tight circle now! It will be harder for them to break-”

The speaker cut off suddenly. Jon’s breaths came quicker and quicker, burning through his body.

Eighteen torchlights.

“Help me!” someone cried. “Help!”

One torchlight was waving wildly. He ran towards the light, towards the sound, but then out of the darkness something _grabbed_.

Jon dropped his torch.

Large cold arms came to his throat and strangled him. Jon tried to scream, but he barely get the sound out, could barely get past the choking round his throat.

“Ygritt-”

There were horrible sounds in his ear, gasps and rattles in a voice that didn’t sound anything like human.

He craned his neck just enough to see dead blue eyes.

Jon was struggling, trying to get his hands under those awful arms to loosen the hold.

But his breath was going ragged, his vision was fuzzing at the edges, he could barely see, barely think…

There was fire.

The great body behind him had been set aflame. The arms loosened just enough and Jon scampered away. The flaming body still moved, still reached for him, but Jon jumped back.

The body collapsed, and Jon looked up to see Ygritte holding her torch.

“You alright?” she choked out. Her face, two feet in front of him, was faint. He nodded.

Another body went up in flame. Man or monster, Jon didn’t know.

He looked around. There were only nine torchlights.

Ygritte took Jon’s hand and squeezed.

“I think we got two, maybe three,” Ygritte was saying. “That means there’s only a few more. We ca-”

Her face vanished, her hand snatched from his with an angry yell.

For a moment, Jon was unable to move. In a flash he saw a vision of her, cold and dead.

But Ygritte was still yelling, very much alive. He turned in circles frantically. What could he do? His torch was out.

Jon found himself clumsily reaching for the spear at his back.

The body on the ground was still flaming. Jon shakily bent down and used it to light the wooden shaft of his spear.

“Ygritte!” he screamed. “If you can hear me, drop as much as you can!”

He heard a loud thumb. He prayed that meant she’d done it.

He ran with the spear, nearly blind, flame licking at his hands. Suddenly he made out a hulking shape, a bald head, and quick as he could he aimed for the neck.

It was a sloppy hit, and barely missed the top of Ygritte’s head, but it was enough. The body caught, and Ygritte freed herself. The light from the flame was great enough to see what, who the monster was.

It was Gledb. His red face bone white, his unseeing eyes deathly blue. Half of one arm had been torn away, and his guts were spilling from his stomach, but still he moved.

* * *

The mist was easing, and the fight seemed over. The monsters were dead. But they had done incredible damage.

Gore was littered everywhere. Gjala was kneeling over Harma’s body, making no sound. Out of twenty, only seven had lived.

They gathered the bodies to the center of a clearing. But they still needed to move Harma.

Ygritte knelt down next to Gjala.

“We need to burn the body.” Her voice was softer than Jon had ever heard it.

Gjala didn’t even look at her, just stood and walked off without a word in the direction of camp. After a moment, quiet sobs echoed through the trees. Jon and Ygritte lifted the body. Jon tried his best not to stare at Harma’s face.

The survivors set the fire and watched it burn down. In the distance, in the corners of his eyes, Jon thought he could see the frozen eyes watching them.

* * *

“We need to move, and we need to move now!”

An emergency council was called the next morning. It was unusual for the forest clan to hold council without the chieftain present, and more unusual still for a council to be thrown together in mere hours.

But little about this day had been usual.

People were shouting and Svegar beat his drum and Ulelda was saying something. Jon stared at the floor. He barely heard what was happening around him.  
He still felt those cold arms round his neck. Still felt Ygritte’s hand snatched from his.

He hadn’t slept at all, nor had Ygritte. They had lain in furs together for hours before council, eyes open. Seeing nothing, saying nothing.

She was sitting next to him now, sitting close, sharing his heat. They didn’t look at each other.

 _Had he washed? Brushed his hair? Changed his clothes?_ Jon couldn’t remember. He looked at his hands. There was ash at his fingertips, under his nails.

He rubbed at his forearms. He couldn’t get warm.

Not even Ghost at his feet could chase the chill from his bones.

“...want Mance to be with us. He’s been a good chieftain, he deserves to travel with us.”

There was a pause in the room. Jon expected an angry voice to cut in, say that Mance was a ridiculous man and a worse chief.

Then he realized it would have been Gledb who did that, and Gledb was dead.

Jon closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, he saw Gledb aflame, roaring, guts spilling from his body, eyes wide and blue. He snapped his eyes back open.

“No one denies Mance’s skill as a leader, but we aren’t safe here any more. We need to move as soon as we can. We can send a scout to tell him we’ve gone.”

Jon glanced round the room and caught sight of Orell. His nose was swollen. That’s right, Jon had done that, about this time yesterday. And Gledb had...

Gledb had five sons, the oldest only eight years.

“...Antler River People are heading to the Skirling Pass in a few days, when they pass, I say we join them. The more numbers we have the better.”

“Well spoken, Hror of the elders. I now open this council to questions from the people assembled.”

He should eat something, Jon realized. He should take some dried berries from the stores. Though Harma might-

No that’s right. Harma wouldn’t do anything.

A vote was called. People were saying “aye.” Jon wasn’t sure what they were voting on.

* * *

The camp was to leave by the end of the week. Jon tried to set his mind to finishing his packing and helping others prepare.

He didn’t know when he would see Mance again. They were sending a rider to him, but Jon likely wouldn’t see him 'til they reached the Skirling Pass.

But Jon wanted Mance. Desperately. He remembered being small, crawling into Mance’s lap for comfort. A part of him needed that now, the comfort a child can only find in his father’s arms.

He clung to Ghost, and Ygritte. They all slept on the same furs together every night. Jon didn’t dream of Crows now, nor did he dream in riddles of the future; he dreamt of mist and torches winking out and dead things. Ghost seemed to sense this, and would snuggle against him, give him dreams of being warm in bed with relaxed paws and soft fur and deep smells and his favorite people at his side.

But Ygritte had no one to take her nightmares, so Jon and Ghost spent many nights trying to coax her back to sleep or comfort her as she woke shaking.

During the day, they slowly became themselves again. They talked and joked and laughed. Ygritte called him little boy and poked at his ribs, and he’d act over sullen at her teasing to make her laugh and tease more. Things seemed much the same as they always had.

But at night, it was hard to deny the fear that had taken hold of them

"I just want to run,” she said one night, after sex that had been quick and desperate. All their sex now was quick and desperate, as they were trying to chase the numbness from each other’s bodies.

She was spooned against him, their arms, their hands, their legs entwined.

“I want to run with you and find some great deep cave where the dead can’t reach us. I want to climb into it, far down as it goes, and never leave.”

* * *

Soon the day dawned when the camp was to set off. People rushed about, making final preparations. Somehow, nobody seemed quite ready, but the time had come regardless. Jon near bumped into a child carrying a pile of furs twice as high as himself. One one Gledb’s boys, Jon realized with a start.

He looked across the camp and saw Gjala where Harma should have been, handing families last minute supplies, packing the sled that would keep the group’s provisions. Jon caught sight of her face. Her eyes still looked shattered.

Jon looked down quickly. Yes, it was time to go.

He went back to his hut and packed the last of his things. He rolled his furs into a bedroll and strapped it to the top of his pack.

There was nothing left on the shelves or floor, nothing to prove anyone had ever lived here.

“Come here, Ghost.”

The wolf, who now stood higher than Jon’s knees, came to him. Jon put his pack to his back, ruffled Ghost’s fur, and together they walked out the door.

The clan was filling out into the wood, and Jon walked with them. When he reached the edge of the clearing, he turned back a moment.

He looked at the longhouse in the center of camp, at the scattered circle of huts that surrounded it. He looked at the animal pens and the community oven and at the well and the outdoor fire pit and at the garden sleeping for winter.

This place had been the only home he’d ever known. He’d climbed each of the trees and he’d played tag between the huts and stolen vegetables from the garden and on one memorable occasion fell down into the well. He’d heard countless tales told round the fire.

He wondered if he’d see this place again.

He wished Mance was there.

There was a hand at his shoulder, and Ygritte was at his side. He took her hand, tried to smile. She was trying to smile too, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

He squeezed her hand, and they turned and headed into the wood. 


	14. Traveling

The journey was both more difficult and more fun than Jon expected.

Winter was truly beginning to set in, and frequently they were forced to take shelter from deep snows and harsh ice storms. Sometimes it felt they had barely moved before the next storm set in. It was slow, hard going.

But the journey was often exciting. They joined up with the Antler River caravan, and the joy of a hundred little reunions seemed to chase away the fear that had settled over the Forest Clan.

Jon was especially cheered to see Tormund, who greeted him with a big hug and a laugh, as he always did. As they walked, Tormund told Jon of his life since he’d last seen him, making even the dull moments sound like grand tales from the age of heroes. Jon hesitatingly told him of his own troubles, of the Crow and the monsters in the ice.

Tormund listened, rubbing soothing circles on his back. He told Jon he’d fought well and bravely. Then Tormund retold Jon’s troubles back to him in mythic tones and with absurd touches that made Jon laugh. Tormund started calling Jon by ridiculous lofty names based on his recent fights, like Jon the Icespearer and Jon Crowbiter, and Jon snorted, smiling.

“Crowbiter, really?”

“You have to get a few names under you sometime, little wolf. Did I ever tell you how I got the name Giantsbane?”

“Several times.”

“Well, let me remind you. A few years ago I went hunting giants-”

“That story is disgusting,” called Ygritte from behind them.

Tormund looked back at her. Jon stopped to let her catch up.

“Well then, dear Ygritte, let me tell you another tale, your favorite tale, of how I gained my new name, Husband of Bears.”

Ygritte groaned. Jon grinned. It was good to have them all back together.

Jon also met Tormund’s daughters again. They were four and six, and last time Jon had seen them they’d been tiny babes. They were sweet wild things.

Jon loved watching Tormund with them, he’d carry them on his shoulders and told them children’s tales in the Antler River language. Neither girl spoke a word of the common tongue, and Jon found his skill with their language improving as he spoke to them.

The girls took a liking to both Jon and Ygritte, and they found themselves often caught up in their games. They’d have snowball fights, make basic sleds, play fetch with Ghost in the snow.

One morning before setting out, Tormund’s youngest, Munda, had shyly asked Jon if she could braid his hair.

 _“Shehibuhe?”_ she asked hopefully, eyes huge.

Jon smiled, _“Thenyáshme.”_

He sat on the ground so she could reach him, and she happily got to work. She’d carefully made a braid at each side of his head, then joined them together in the back so that Jon’s curls were half braided, half down. Ygritte liked it so much she declared he should wear his hair like that always.

One morning, Jon saw Ygritte teaching Tormund’s eldest how to properly string a bow, and Jon something in Jon’s heart flipped.

Eventually, they joined with the Hornfoots too, and Jon found himself making friends with their new companions. He specifically sought out their warg, Eira.

On this journey, Jon had truly seen how valuable warging could be to the Free Folk. As much as Jon hated him, Orell’s scouting had saved them several times from running into Crows or great beasts. Not that Jon would ever admit that to his face. But Jon knew he needed to learn, so he could use his gift to help his people.

Eira was a kind, middle aged woman with warm brown eyes and a blackfooted fox at her side. She was a busy woman with a family of five, but she was eager to teach another warg. Said it would be good practice for when she had to train her own children.

So sometimes during camp at night, she would leave the children with her husband and come to Jon’s tent. She was a better teacher than Orell ever was, showing Jon how to quiet his mind and find the wolf nearby. He still was not the best warg, but soon Jon could enter Ghost’s mind for a few minutes and jump about in the snow with Eira’s fox, playing like pups.

As the caravan moved, they told tales to each other and sang old songs in many tongues. Jon joined in the harmonies, feeling part of something much larger, more ancient than himself.

When they traveled together like this, as such a large group of united people, the threats of Crows and southerners and ice gods quieted in Jon’s mind. Those things felt small in the face of something as mighty as the Free Folk marching as one.

Sometimes, in the dead of night as the wind howled through the tent, those fears would return. But he had Ghost and Ygritte there to comfort him.

_Ygritte._

This journey had somehow drawn them even closer together. It was thrilling to see these new lands with her, meet new people with her, hunt new game with her.

During one hunt, away from the main group, a small boar had charged Jon, and she’d shot an arrow through it’s eye just before the tusks went into him. They’d laughed about it, how ridiculous the beast looked, how ridiculous Jon had looked, as they’d roasted it over the fire. They’d shared the meat and tossed the bones to Ghost and Jon felt so _so_ warm.

The Hornfoots taught them some complicated game of chance with stone tiles and dice, and Jon found he had incredible luck with it. He played Ygritte and won, and tried not to be too smug. Ygritte had pretended to pout, teasingly accused him of cheating, and then challenged him to a drinking contest, which he lost.

Later, as he was vomiting on the frozen ground, he turned to see Ygritte looking at him fondly. She came to rub at his back.

“You’ve got determination, little boy, I’ll give you that. Even if you are a poor drinker.”

She held his hair back when he threw up again.

They were honest about their fears to each other. Ygritte told Jon about the nightmares she’d had about the Wall as a child, how when she got close to it it seemed to be made of bone and flesh and blood. She told him how every night she dreamed of the dead monsters in the mist, how in her worst imaginings the ice gods would spread them across the land and wipe the Free Folk from the world. How scared she was to have children in a world that felt so dark.

Jon told her about how he still saw Gledb’s frozen face, Uli’s horrible frozen body. He told her how he dreamed of Crows snatching at him, devouring him. He told her how afraid he was of being a southerner.

At this, Ygritte had laughed softly and put her hand to his cheek. “You know it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference to me. I don’t care where Mance found you. He could have stolen you from the royal cradle itself. You’re one of us.”

Jon had kissed her then. It didn’t completely ease his fears, he still felt truly broken at the idea that he might come from such people. 

Yet it meant a lot to hear her say it. To hear her say he was one of them, no matter what.

Later, by the firelight in their tent, Jon asked, “But what if I am one of them, and they come for me? You know how the southerners, the Crows, fight for everything, how they try to take anything they think is theirs.”

Ygritte grinned. “Let them try. You’re mine, and I’ll kill anyone who says otherwise.”

They stayed in the same tent. Jon didn’t even remember it being a question of whether they would do so; they’d only packed the one.

In the mornings, Jon braided Ygritte’s hair, and now, since little Munda’s experiment, Ygritte would braid Jon’s. He loved the feeling of her fingers working in his long curls, braiding them halfway down his back.

They cooked for each other, hunted for each other. They helped each other wash and pack. At night, they would rub the soreness of walking from each other’s feet, would comfort each other when they woke from nightmares.

One morning, a Hornfoot called Jon Ygritte’s husband, and he realized they’d been living as husband and wife for a long time, in everything but name. And Jon suddenly knew what they should do.

* * *

A new snow was falling in the night, making the world still and soft and lovely. Jon had snuck out of the tent an hour before, and tried to sneak back in just as quietly.

He shook Ygritte awake.

“Ygritte, Ygritte-”

“Mmmm?”

“Wake up.”

“Why? It’s the middle of the damn night.”

“I’m stealing you. If that’s alright.”

She opened her eyes. Simply stared at him for a moment. Then she laughed, her smile wide.

“You’re not supposed to tell me before you do it. The whole point is I kill you if I don’t want to.”

“I know, but I thought it’d be good to warn you, especially given the nightmares and all. And so you can put on your boots.”

The smile on her face was soft. She laughed again. She pulled her boots on quickly, then her outer furs.

Her hair, her face was _shining_. Jon couldn’t stop looking at her.

“All right, let’s get to it then.”

She fell back on the bed dramatically.

“Oh look at me, just lying here in the night, expecting nothing at all to happen, certainly not expecting a ridiculous curly haired boy to carry me off, no not at all.”

Jon rolled his eyes, laughed, and gathered her into his arms.

Ygritte poked at his ribs, and elbowed him, and at one point ran from him laughing. He tackled her into the snow. He was so caught up in how beautiful she looked there that when she moved to pick him up and threw him over her shoulder, he yelped.

“Put me down! This isn’t how this is supposed to go.”

“Aye, but why shouldn’t I steal you? I’m fairly certain I’ll be better at it.”

“You don’t know where we’re going.”

“Oh, are we going somewhere?”

“It’s a surprise!”

She paused, considering.

“Fair enough.”

She threw Jon into a snowbank. As he sputtered, she ran off, laughing.

“Try to catch me then, little boy!”

Eventually they reached the caves. Tormund had helped Jon find this place. He’d been practically vibrating of excitement when Jon told him, and had been eager to help in any way he could.

Jon climbed down, Ygritte still in his arms, and came to a cavern with hot springs. A small fire was set there, with fresh elk meat roasting over it. There were dried berries and a skin filled with fermented milk and even a very small dried honeycake Jon had begged from Ulelda.

Jon put Ygritte down, and she walked around the cave seeming almost dazed. She turned to him, tenderness in her eyes.

“What, you’re not going to run off again?” Jon teased. But Ygritte didn’t respond, and Jon was suddenly self-conscious.

“This is all right isn’t it?"

“It’s lovely,” she breathed. “You’re lovely.”

She kissed him, melted into him. She kept kissing him, and suddenly they had less and less furs on, and they fell back onto the cave floor together.

“This is the cave,” she sighed hours later. “I never want to leave this cave.”

* * *

The next day during the journey seemingly everyone came to greet them with congratulations.

Tormund was beaming, lit from within, telling everyone that didn’t know them well what a good match they were. People they'd barely spoken to came up with hugs and words of wisdom and well wishes.

Jon was honestly a bit shy at all the attention, but he knew the Free Folk loved any excuse for a celebration.

That night, when the caravan camped, there was music and dancing and toasts to the couple. His daughters had found some winter flowers somewhere and made Ygritte and Jon crowns for their hair. Ghost acted like a small puppy, jumping in excited little circles. Old couples told warm tales of how they’d met. Eira, fox in her arms, told them how her people said vows in front of weirwood trees. Ygritte liked the idea so much she declared she and Jon should do that in front of the very next weirwood they passed.

Tormund started telling one of his more ridiculous stories, and Ygritte had him cut off with a song. She pulled Jon up to dance round the fire, and he hadn’t known until now he’d been capable of such happiness.

His only wished Mance had been there to see it.

* * *

The Free Folk had been traveling for a little more then a month, and Jon had been Ygritte’s husband for one wonderful week.

They were about to reach the Fist of the First Men. Jon was excited; he’d been here once as a child and he couldn’t wait to show Ygritte the hidden ruins and massive standing stones he’d found so fascinating as a boy.

There were deer tracks in the fresh snow, which meant good hunting nearby.

People were still preparing for the caravan to move, it would be at least another hour until they set off. But Jon and Ygritte were all packed and ready, so they decided to set out with their bows and see if they could get some venison they could cook when they camped that night.

They moved quietly along the land, their eyes on the tracks, Ghost at their side. At the top of a hill, Ygritte stopped suddenly and gestured to Jon. A pair of stray deer from the herd were pawing in the snow ahead. Ghost crouched behind the rocks, eyes sharp.

“We should get into the trees, it’ll be an easier angle to hit them.”

Ygritte snorted quietly.

“They’ll hear us. Ghost here has the better idea. I can hit them from behind those rocks easily.”

“They’ll see you.”

“Not if I crouch low enough.”

“Then you won’t be able to get the angle to hit them.”

“Is that a bet, husband?”

Jon flushed and smiled.

“I tell you what we’ll do,” Ygritte continued. “You get in the tree, I’ll get behind the rock. You take the doe to the left, I take the doe to the right. Whoever hits first, wins.”

“What do they win?” Jon said, grinning.

“The loser, or you, will have to drag the sled with the carcasses all day. While the winner, me, will get to point at laugh at the arse who thought he could beat the Forest Clan’s best marksman.”

Jon huffed out a quiet laugh. “I’ll take that bet.”

“Well, seal it with a kiss then.”

Jon kissed Ygritte, softly, quickly. Her eyes were dancing when he pulled away.

“Alright then. One, two, three, go!”

Jon ran quietly for the tree. He climbed it, silently as he could. A doe looked up sharply his his direction, and Jon realized Ygritte may have had a point about the noise. But she soon put her head back down, and Jon continued into up the branches.

He shifted into position. Jon could see quite well from up here. He could see the red top of Ygritte’s head, crouched behind her rock. He could see their prey, pawing at the ground. And from the corner of his eye he could see-

Jon’s stomach dropped.

He could see Crows, six of them, riding up the hill behind him, directly toward them.

Or, more properly, directly towards Ygritte. Once they went over the hilltop, they would see her immediately.

Jon tried to wave his arms, to get her attention, but he was too well hidden in the trees. He closed his eyes and tried to warg into Ghost, but his breaths were too short and his heart was hammering and he couldn't find the space in his mind.

He drew his bow and fired an arrow towards her. She looked up, he waved frantically. Ygritte seemed to think he was joking, because she shook her head and turned back to watching the doe.

She did not move.

The Crows were almost here. They could try to fight them. Two of them with bows, and Ghost with his teeth and claws. But the Crows had horses, and there were twice as many of them. Jon was fairly certain it’d be a losing fight.

And if they lost, the Crows would follow their tracks through the hills and find the caravan. The Crows would be killed by the caravan eventually, but no telling how many lives they would claim first.

Jon thought of Tormund’s daughters, dead in the snow.

He was out of time. They would be on Ygritte in just a moment. He had to distract them, so she could get away.

_Forgive me._

He leapt from the tree and ran directly at the Crows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Shehibuhe?” - Please?
> 
> "“Thenyáshme.” - I'd be honored.


	15. Interlude - Ygritte

Ygritte ran.

The breath burned through her lungs, her muscles shook, her heart felt as though would burst through her chest. She struggled to keep her footing on the icy ground.

But still she ran.

Two thoughts spiraled in her mind, repeating over and over.

 _That stupid stupid boy!_ and _I have to save him._

When Ygritte had realized what was happening; when she heard the shouts of “Wildling!” and realized they’d been spotted, she had immediately made for the treeline and started shooting.

She was shocked to see Jon already in the thick of them; she’d expected he’d be shooting from the tree above her head.

He was fighting badly. Not protecting his sides, moving erratically in circles, being more loud and destructive than careful and quick. It wasn’t until he started shouting at imaginary unseen allies from the opposite side of the hills that she’d realized what was happening. He wasn’t fighting to live, he was fighting to distract. To draw them away from the caravan.

To buy her time to run.

Ygritte had not fought well either. Normally she could hit a squirrel from half a field away. But in the suddenness of it all, in her panic at seeing Jon in the hands of Crows, she’d wasted _three_ precious arrows with three missed shots. She was certain she’d killed one Crow, wounded another, and killed one of their horses. But three wasted shots in such a close fight was _everything_.

One Crow had come looking for her, but she knew how to hide in trees; knew how to melt into branches.

And the Crow had only been there mere moments. She’d heard Jon yell and the Crow ran back to his fellows, so presumably Jon had created some stupid diversion that needed the man in black's attention.

She had thought about charging the Crows, trying to get as many as she could with surprise and her hunting knife. But that would simply get her killed.

She'd watched Ghost charge. The wolf had run straight at the Crows immediately, growling and snarling and biting, turning the Crow’s panicked horses round and round until they didn’t know which way was which.

But then one of the horses had kicked him. The wolf had let out a terrible yelp and fell back in the snow, fur coated with blood. He hadn’t moved again.

 _No,_ she had thought. _Charging was not a good idea._ She couldn’t help Jon if she was dead. He was buying her time, and she should use it. So she’d snuck from the treeline, made herself as invisible as impossible. The moment she knew she was out of sight, she _ran_.

Ygritte felt she’d been running forever.

_That stupid stupid boy! I have to save him._

She needed to stop, to catch her breath, but there was no time. The Crows looked like they were tying Jon up, taking him prisoner, but who knew how long until they just decided to kill him?

Clouds were gathering overhead, making the once blue sky as grey as a corpse.

Ygritte pushed harder and went faster.

She cursed Jon for going to meet them alone, for trying to distract them, for being such a moronic self-sacrificing idiot! She cursed herself for not hearing the hoofbeats sooner, for ignoring Jon’s warning arrow, for missing three _three_ shots when she only had a quiver of six. She cursed both of them for not bringing more weapons that morning.

They’d known this journey was dangerous, known they were in unfamiliar lands, known Crows were everywhere. But still they’d let themselves get too comfortable. _Stupid, stupid._

Despite the cold, Ygritte’s furs were soaked with sweat.

It started to snow.

_No._

New snow would cover everything; hoofprints, dirt, blood stains. The terrain here was terrible for tracking. There were only scattered trees, only scattered bushes.

If it kept snowing hard, soon there’d be no way to know where the Crows had gone. Where Jon had gone.

Ygritte ran faster.

_That stupid stupid boy! I have to save him._

Ygritte’s eyes stung, wind and snow whipping at her face. Her legs were cramping and her body was shaking but she had to keep going.

The snow made the ground ever slicker. Ygritte’s foot slipped out from under her.

She threw out an arm to break her fall. There was a loud crack from her wrist and a sharp burst of pain.

She got back up and kept running.

Finally, _finally_ the caravan came into sight, people sheltering back in the caves from the storm. They were chatting, laughing. Unaware of the danger nearby. Unaware that her life had just been ripped to pieces.

_I have to save him._

Ygritte began to scream.

“They took Jon! The Crows! They took him!”

* * *

It took no time at all to gather twenty fighters with spears and bows and axes. Tormund had been the first to grab his weapons, and Ygritte tried to take comfort in the stony anger and determination on his face.

She led the band through the hills. The snow was coming thicker and faster. It was hard to see. Ygritte’s own tracks from her run were nearly gone, and she hoped against hope the Crows would still be near the hill where they’d fought.

They finally reached the site, and ran over the hilltop with war cries, with spears and axes raised.

No one was there. Nothing was there.

The only signs anything had happened here were dead horses and little Ghost, curled and bloody on the ground.

Ygritte went to the wolf. She knelt in front of him. Blood was violently dark against his white fur.

Tormund crouched beside her, gently. He placed a hand at her shoulder.

“We can’t track them in this storm, but there are other ways to find-” Tormund was listing options, ways to find Jon, but Ygritte could barely hear him.

She knew how Crows could disappear if you didn’t catch them quickly, knew those who they took captive were often never seen again. By the time the storm let up, Jon would likely be lost to them.

Two hours ago she’d been a new bride teasing her husband. Where had that gone? How had that been taken from her so quickly?

Suddenly Ghost whined and moved a little, and Ygritte immediately reached for him.

He still breathed. His heart still beat. She rubbed his ears and he leaned into the touch.

Still alive. Ygritte clutched her hands into the soft, white fur.

“...be kinder to put the poor beast out of its misery,” someone was saying.

“Keep speaking and I’ll cut out your tongue and shove it down your throat,” Ygritte snarled.

There was silence.

Ygritte slowly, carefully, got her arms underneath the great wolf pup and lifted him from the bloody snow. The beast was heavy, already near the size of a full grown dog, and her wrist was screaming. But she cradled him, even smiled a little as the wolf nuzzled into her. She turned to march back the way she’d come.

_I have to save him._

Tormund was right, there were other ways to find Jon. And she was going to talk to one of them.

* * *

“I can’t fly in this storm.”

Ygritte was pacing in front of Orell, glaring. He refused to meet her eyes.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Ygritte, if ice gets in my wings…”

“They aren’t your damn wings, it’s just a fucking bird. Warg into him, find Jon, and then you get a new fucking bird.”

“I can’t just get a new bird. That’s not how this works. It’s not that easy.”

“Course it is, you just don’t want to try.”

“You know how hard it is to bond with an animal! Else you wouldn’t have just asked a healer to treat a godsdamn wolf!”

Ygritte hit the cave wall with her good hand. Orell jumped. Ygritte spun to face him.

She took slow steps towards him, one hand on her hunting knife.

“You always hated Jon. You’d be happy to see the back of him, happy to have him dead.” She drew the knife from its sheath. She kept stalking closer.

“Ygritte-”

“But I don’t care about your stupid rivalry. I don’t care you were pissed you weren’t the only special little warg in the Forest Clan anymore.”

“Ygritte-”

She grabbed the front of Orell’s furs; the knife was inches from his neck.

“You’re going to find him, and you’re going to find him now, or I’ll cut your throat and let that godsdamn wolf grow strong and healthy again feasting on your blood.”

“Ygritte!”

It took Ygritte a moment to realize this protest wasn’t coming from Orell, but from behind her.

She turned and Tormund was there, hands raised, looking for all the world like he was trying to calm a skittish animal.

She didn’t care.

“What? If this worthless dirty bird doesn’t care enough to find one of our own, who cares if we gut him? What use is he to us?”

“I can’t find-”

“Shut your mouth!” Ygritte hissed in Orell’s face.

“Ygritte, listen to me.” Tormund’s voice was soft. “The storm is too severe. You can’t see more than a foot in front of you. The Crows will be caught in it too. When it’s over, we’ll make him scout for us, and we’ll be able to see where they’re going.”

“He’ll just lie.”

“I won’t-”

“I said shut up!”

“We’ll send out a search party too,” Tormund assured. “We’ll make sure it’s not just down to his word. And if he lies to you, I’ll help you tear out Orell’s spinal column myself.”

At this Orell made a choked off noise of protest.

“I promise you, Ygritte. You know how much I care for your boy.”

Ygritte was breathing hard as Tormund spoke. Her heart was pounding. But she knew Tormund wasn’t lying. He’d help her.

She sheathed her knife and let Orell go. He scampered away from her.

“You’d better hope we find him,” Ygritte said as she stalked up to the cavemouth to watch the storm stop.

* * *

The snow didn’t let up until the next morning. The moment it did, Tormund started gathering a search party while Ygritte glowered in front of Orell, his eyes white.

When he came back to himself, he said simply, “There’s nothing.” It took three people to hold Ygritte back from him.

She joined Tormund on searches. She could barely use her hands; Ulelda had told her one wrist was broken, and her other hand was swelling from punching the cave wall. But her feet worked perfectly well, and she was on them constantly for days. Trudging through deep snow, scaling slick hills of ice, walking and walking and walking.

But they found nothing.

* * *

At the end of the fourth day, Tormund came to her. She was packing supplies for the next day's search.

“I’ll see you at first light, yeah?”

He didn't say anything for a moment. His eyes were fixed on the ground.

“Ygritte…” he said slowly. “There isn’t going to be another search party.”

She didn’t stop packing.

“The elders, the other chieftains...they say we can’t stay here anymore. The caravan needs to keep moving west.”

Ygritte kept packing. She didn’t look up.

“Ygritte…”

“Never thought you’d of all people give up on him,” she bit out harshly.

“Ygritte, we’ve seen no signs of him. None. If we stay in one place too long, you know as well as I do that the Crows could come in force and cut us all down. Especially if they know we’re nearby.”

She kept packing.

"This isn't just about Jon. We have to make sure we're all safe, that the Crows don't know we're here. I'm a chieftain, I have to think of my people. I have to think of my girls."

She wouldn't look at Tormund. He moved closer to her.

“We can keep having Orell search from the skies. We don't need to be here to do that. The moment he sees anything, anything at all, I will ride out with you to get him. I will help you rip the heads from any Crows that stand in the way.”

Ygritte didn’t look up.

“Ygritte-”

“That stupid, stupid boy. What, did he think I couldn’t defend myself? Even if the Crows were riding at me, I could have fought them. I could have, I could have...But no, he just had to be a self sacrificing idiot.” Something she’d been avoiding was building behind her eyes.

Tormund didn’t say anything.

“I should have done something different. I should have run for help the moment I heard them yelling. I should have heard the hoofbeats earlier. You know I missed three shots? _Three!_ I should have run at the Crows, least then we’d be together. I made so many...I was so stupid. I don’t, I don’t know what-”

And then she was sobbing, and Tormund gathered her into his arms.

* * *

Later that night, Ygritte went to Ulelda. She couldn’t sleep. She felt wrung out, and so so tired, but sleep would not come.

She wanted to see the wolf. She wanted to have at least that left.

Ulelda was still awake. She led Ygritte straight to Ghost.

“There’s a deep gash from where the hoof caught him that will take some time to heal, but I’ve sewed it shut and no ribs seem to be broken.”

Ygritte knelt next to the pup. His side was tightly wrapped, and he seemed listless, but he still leaned up to lick at her face.

“A kick from a horse has killed stronger things than direwolf puppies. It’s miraculous he’s alive.”

“Can I take him back to my bedroll?” Ygritte needed this, this reminder of Jon, this last reminder of Jon.

Ulelda nodded. Ygritte moved to pick him up, trying to ignore the pain in her hands.

“You should let me look at those dear.”

“I’m fine.”

Ulelda looked at her, too shrewdly, but let it go.

Just as Ygritte was about to leave, Ulelda called out, “You should speak to Eira when you have a moment. She worked with Jon, warged with him. She thinks she could possibly use that to find him. And foxes can see things birds might miss.”

Ygritte nodded dully. So many people over the past few days had fed her promises. Yet none had found Jon.

She knew most people thought he was already dead.

But Ygritte said none of this to Ulelda. She just nodded and walked away.

When Ygritte reached her bedroll, she lay Ghost beside her and stared at the rock above her.

There were hundreds, maybe thousands of people in this cave. But none of them had been able to do anything. None of them had been able to find Jon.

_Including her._

She’d never felt so helpless. It was becoming harder and harder to believe she’d ever see Jon again.

She would give the gods anything to see him again.

Ghost licked her face suddenly.

She turned to rub his ears, then found herself staring in the wolf pup’s eyes. Something there was different.

She stared deeper.

“Jon?”

The wolf gave another lick at her face.

“Jon is that you?”

Ghost licked her again and Ygritte laughed and held him close. He nuzzled at her neck, licked at her ears.

Ygritte did not know how she knew this was Jon, but she did. With It was truly him. Not some shade or shadow or remnant of him. But truly truly Jon, telling her he was alive.

“You stupid stupid boy,” she said fondly, crying softly into fur. “I’ll save you. And I swear to all the gods, we’ll be together again.”


	16. Interlude - Benjen

Benjen thought he would have more time.

His mind had raced the entire ride back from Winterfell. He’d told Ned he would get the boy to the Wall if he found him. And Benjen knew he likely could get him there physically. Worse came to worse, he could tie the boy to his horse.

No, the problem would be _keeping_ him there.

There were occasional fanciful stories heard around campfires on rangings of Wildlings who turned cloak and joined the Watch. But these were, as far as Benjen knew, only stories. And even in these tales the Wildling always came willingly.

He knew for a fact the Night’s Watch had kept occasional Wildling servants throughout the years; doing work that was considered beneath the Watch or too difficult or strange for the Stewards. For example, not too long ago the Lord Commander had regaled him with an ancient record he'd found of a Wildling who trained mammoths for the watch.

But this was, as far as Benjen knew, incredibly rare. And again, the Wildlings were usually willing.

Well, there were a few very old tales about Wildlings so broken by years of torture they agreed to serve the Wall. But Benjen both hoped those tales weren’t true, and had no intention of torturing his nephew into such a state.

Lyanna would claw herself back into the living world and cut Benjen’s head from his shoulders if he allowed such a thing to happen.

But the boy would just run back beyond the Wall if Benjen tried to keep him in Castle Black. Honestly, the best solution would be to get him south of the Wall, far away from the “Crows” he likely hated. Away from the Night’s Watch, the boy might be more calm, more willing to listen. If things could be explained and he was offered a good place, a good life...maybe he’d be more amenable to staying.

Of course, then that got into the issue Lady Catelyn brought up at Winterfell, of how to explain his existence.

And this all presumed the boy did not have ties beyond the Wall he wouldn’t want to give up. Gods forbid the boy had family, a woman, children of his own.

He had not even begun to think about how he’d explain the Wildling boy to his sworn brothers, to the Lord Commander. They would hate him on sight. Many would try to kill him.

And if they realized _why_ Benjen was protecting a Wildling, if they realized he was putting family he was born to above the Watch, if they realized he was breaking his Oath...well Benjen would likely be put to death.

Funnily enough, as warden of the North, it would be Ned’s duty to carry out his execution.

_It would be just my luck if Ned executes me for something that was his idea._

This had all seemed simple to Ned. Just go get the boy, find him a place. But Benjen couldn’t see any good solution to this problem. He had hoped that he could spend his journey to the Wall in quiet contemplation, trying to arrive at one.

But that was not to be. They had a tourist with them.

Tyrion Lannister, the King’s brother in law himself, had impulsively decided to journey to the Wall. Kept saying he wanted to “piss of the edge of it.” Which was typically crass.

The imp took nothing seriously. His near constant jokes about the Night’s Watch grated at the Black Brother’s nerves. The Lord was clearly of the opinion the ancient order was nothing but a gang of rapers and thieves protecting the realm from imaginary child’s tales. And he found it terribly funny.

This rich little Lord could mock about grumpkins and snarks, but he wouldn’t speak so arrogantly if he’d seen the things Benjen had seen. Heard the things Benjen had heard.

He shuddered and tried not to think of ice eyes, slitting through the trees.

Further, Benjen was bothered by the imp’s proximity to King Robert, who Benjen was technically plotting treason against. It made Benjen constantly uncomfortable, unable to truly clear his mind.

He tried to avoid Lannister, but the man seemed to have caught on that Benjen disliked him and found it greatly amusing to bother him. Benjen could not find a moment’s peace.

However, one thing about the imp did provide inspiration. His books.

The Wall had an enormous library, thousands of years of records. Surely Benjen would be able to find some kind of precedent for this. In all of the thousand generations the Watch had existed, surely someone had lost a bastard to the Wildlings and tried to get them back.

At the very least, reading might help quiet his thoughts long enough to arrive at an epiphany.

But when they rode into Castle Black, there was no time for reading. He was summoned to Lord Commander Mormont’s office immediately upon his arrival. He went quickly, both because he wanted to serve his Commander well and because Lannister was making some crude joke about sneaking to the Mole’s Town brothels.

Lord Commander Mormont greeted Benjen warmly, but gravely.

Waymar Royce was still missing. Benjen was to take out a party of Rangers in the morning to search for him.

He felt a bit guilty for leaving Lyanna’s boy, especially when Ned had been so insistent. But Benjen was already sullying his vows by bringing Stark business, personal concerns, to the Night’s Watch. By planning to harbor a Wildling, an enemy of the realm.

He wouldn’t dishonor his vows further by leaving a sworn brother behind.

Royce needed his help now. The Wildling boy could wait until afterwards.

Again Benjen tried not to think of ice eyes. 

No, this was the best way forward. He'd go looking for Royce, and this would buy Benjen time to arrive at a solution. He wouldn’t be forced to take the boy back now, he wouldn’t find him on this trip.

In a way, Benjen was right. He had not found the boy. The boy had found him.

* * *

It was a grim morning. There had been no sign of Waymar Royce, no sign at all. The men were already growing weary. And the evening before, they had discovered something shocking, something which truly concerned Benjen.

Usually, when tracking Wildlings on the move, the Watch found only small groups of footprints. The largest raiding party Benjen had ever seen had held, at most, twenty people.

But they had discovered in the snow not just a handful of footprints, but a worn down path, trod upon by _hundreds_ of feet. This meant the rumors of Wildlings amassing were likely true. And that was very dangerous.

Wildlings only ever joined up to do one thing. March on the Wall.

He and his fellows had spent an entire night and morning stewing on this foreboding prospect. The Night’s Watch had been grossly undersupported for years. Sadly, Tyrion Lannister’s opinion of the Watch tended to be the prevailing one, and few houses sent them money or sons.

Only three of their nineteen castles were manned, the rest stood in varying stages of decay. Even the manned castles were nowhere near full.

If a group of Wildlings marched on the Wall, there was a decent chance this time they could break it. Could take the gates of Castle Black for themselves. Could invade the Seven Kingdoms. _Could invade the North_.

And the thought of thousands of vicious raiders set loose upon the North was unthinkable.

Benjen knew he and the five rangers at his side could not take on hundreds of Wildlings alone. But they should at least try to get a sense of their numbers, get a sense of where they were going. They could give the Watch an idea of the size of the problem they were facing.

So they agreed to find and track the group, and follow them unseen for a league or so.

They had just barely set out when the Wildling appeared.

Caught off guard, it took a few moments for the rangers to properly react to what was happening. By the time Jafer had shouted “Wilding!” there was already a feather tipped arrow in Benjen’s horse.

After all, it was rare for Wildlings to rush men of the Night’s Watch, and it was rarer still for one man on foot to rush six on horseback.

Which meant there were probably others nearby.

Benjen’s horse whinnied and staggered. Benjen barely had time to jump off before the poor beast crashed to the ground.

Things quickly descended into chaos. The wild man rushed madly about in erratic paths and circles, making it hard to keep clear sight of him, hard to target him, hard to get hold of him. He shot arrows at random, and when he got closer slashed with a knife at the horses. He screamed words in tongues they didn’t speak, he shouted for allies from every hill, he made great howls with no words at all.

There were other more arrows coming from the treeline somewhere, and a great godsdamn dog had leapt into the fray. The horses panicked and spun at the sight of the snarling animal, making it all the more difficult to get a sense of what exactly was going on. He bit into Othor’s horse and it reared, sending the man flying.

Marston’s mount finally kicked the vile thing, putting it to an end. Thank the gods.

Garse was on the ground with an arrow in him, Othor was screaming with some injury or another, and at least two - no three of their horses were fucked. The Wildling had just sliced into Ryon’s mount. Blood arced in the air, soaked the snow. And still there were more arrows coming.

He needed to take control of this situation. He drew his sword.

“Marston, Jafer, ride for the treeline, find their archers! Ryon, Othor, with me! Help me get to him!”

Othor seemed not in a condition to take commands, but Ryon mounted Garse’s horse and charged at the wild man, driving him straight towards Benjen’s sword.

Benjen prepared to end this beast, once and for all. And then he caught sight of the Wildling’s face for the first time since this fight began.

_Oh gods. Of course it would be him. Of course._

Benjen froze.

Which gave the Wildling time to grab his sword by the godsdamn blade and spin it round to Benjen's neck.

The boy’s hands were bleeding. He didn’t seem to feel the pain.

“I’ll kill him! Get your men back from the trees or I swear to the gods I’ll kill him!”

“Marston, Jafer - back now!” Ryon ordered. Benjen could hear their horses thundering back.

The boy had clearly never handled a sword before, and it was easy enough work to elbow him in the ribs and force it from his hands.

And then it was over.

The boy was on the ground and Benjen stood over him, his sword at the boy’s neck. There were no more screams, no more arrows, no more snarling dogs. Just a wide eyed boy breathing heavily under Benjen’s blade.

“Garse is dead.” came Jafer’s voice at Benjen’s side. _Fuck_. “May he find the light of the Seven.”

“Othor?” Benjen asked. He heard a groan in response.

“Took an arrow in the leg and shaken from the fall from his horse, but seems good to travel.”

"We should scout, see if there are any more in nearby," Ryon offered. "He's got at least one friend with him." 

"Well his friend seems out of arrows for now, and we should get ourselves sorted before walking into an ambush." Jafer sounded exhausted.

Benjen stared at the boy. All he saw was Lyanna.

“Three horses fucked,” that was Marston. “Not sure how we’re going to travel.”

“Come on then, kill this one so we can take proper stock of what we’re going to do.”

It was said so casually. Just another task in the day of a Ranger. _Oh, just kill your nephew so we can ride on._

This boy was staring up at him, fear all over his face. He looked very young suddenly.

How to avoid killing him? With all his sworn brothers watching him, expecting it? _I thought I’d have more time._

Gods he looked so scared.

“Benjen?”

“We should keep him alive, for questioning.” 

That was his voice. It felt disconnected from his body.

“Benjen, it’s more trouble than it’s worth. This thing managed to get us so turned on our asses that we panicked and fought like a bunch of sorry maids. I don’t like the idea of keeping it around.”

“Also,” Marston spat, staring at something on the ground. “This beast here isn’t a dog, that’s a damn direwolf. I’ll bet anything this Wildling is a warg.”

The boy looked pained at the sight of the bloody wolf, and faintly Benjen could hear a woeful little whine escape his throat. He glared at up at Marston.

“That’s right,” the boy hissed in common, some courage seemingly regained. “I have a whole pack of direwolves, waiting just over the hill rip your throats out.”

“Hush boy,” Benjen murmured, irritated. He didn’t need the child running his mouth and making their situation even worse.

Benjen cleared his throat and cloaked his voice in authority.

“We can’t ride out and track the group of Wildlings in this condition.” At this the boy’s eyes blew wide with a true, deep panic.

Ah, so his nephew was with the band likely planning to march on the Wall and lay waste to the Seven Kingdoms. Wonderful.

_Curse you Ned._

“We might as well gain something from this experience. A Wildling prisoner could give us good information.”

“Aye, fair enough.” Jafer, at least seemed to accept it. “Marston, help me get a rope so we can tie the boy up.”

Benjen breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The first obstacle was passed, the boy would live.

Of course, now Benjen had to figure out how to keep his men from torturing the boy, but that was a problem for another moment.

The boy struggled as he was tied up, but Marston and Jafer had him well in hand. Benjen sheathed his sword and stepped back to breathe for a moment.

When he turned, Ryon was standing near, looking at him strangely.

Benjen simply nodded and went to tend to Othor.

* * *

It started to snow hard not too long after they tied the boy. The clouds were heavy. The storm could last a while.

They decided to return to their camp from the night before; wait out the snow and take stock of how to proceed. They piled supplies on one horse, gave Othor the second, and tied Garse’s body and the boy to the third. The boy seemed distressed about riding with Garse’s body and raised such an incredible fuss that they had to gag him.

They made their way back to where they’d spent the night. It was one of the many small hiding spots the Watch had carved out in the wilds beyond the Wall over the centuries.

This one was named grandly, _Queen Alysanne’s Refuge_. Truthfully, it was a more dirt and stone cellar than any type of true refuge. But it was one of the better places to spend a night beyond the Wall. It was usually mostly dry, surprisingly warm, and there were furs and and cots and moldy supplies.

And chains.

The one stone wall had a pair of wrist irons attached to it, and the boy was shackled into them immediately. Benjen was grateful the chains were at least long enough for the boy to sit and lay down.

They left the boy for several minutes as they set themselves back up here, as they tended to Othor’s injuries, as they brought in Garse and laid his cold body on a table.

Benjen kept glancing at the boy as they worked. He was working at the gag with one shackled hand, clearly trying not to curl in on himself. Trying not to look afraid.

Something in Benjen’s heart clenched.

_I thought I would have more time._

How had things come to this point? This was Lyanna’s boy. The sister he missed like nothing else in this world. This was an insult to her memory.

On the other hand, he'd never believed he would plot to protect a Wildling who had helped kill one of his sworn brothers either.

Benjen glanced at Garse's body guiltily.

This was a mess.

They were almost finished with camp preparations, and Benjen was nearly out of ways to procrastinate. There was no more time. He’d have to interrogate the boy. Somehow.

Without hurting him badly. Without making the boy hate Crows, hate the Seven Kingdoms, hate Benjen even more. And without letting his sworn brothers know he was planning to protect a Wildling, act as an oathbreaker.

Benjen had no idea how he was going to do this.

He sat on his cot heavily and looked around him.

Jafer was ensuring the remaining horses were warm and well fed. Othor was sleeping. Marston had gone to the privy. And Ryon was...well Benjen didn’t know where Ryon was, but he wasn’t in the cellar. Benjen had a few precious seconds of privacy, a few moments with the boy.

Could he say something to him? Could he trust the boy? Trust him not to tell Benjen's sworn brothers he’d kept confidence with him the moment his gag was lifted?

He didn’t know. But he needed to risk it, else potentially lose this boy’s faith forever.

The boy glared and flinched away from him when he crouched down, but Benjen held his hands up, trying to soothe him, promising he had no weapons. The boy stopped moving. Benjen bent to whisper in his ear.

“Listen, I know you have no reason to trust me. But I promise I will try to make this go as well as possible for you. I will try my very best to get you to a safe place as soon as I can. I swear on the Old Gods, I will get you out of this soon.”

The boy just looked at him, suspicion in his eyes.

“But I need you to do one thing for me. I need you to unclasp that wolf pendant around your neck and give it to me. I promise I will give it back to you, but it might be dangerous if these men see it.”

It was true. Jafer especially would recognize castle forged steel. Then they’d wonder where the boy had gotten it, and they’d look at the wolf, and perhaps they’d see Stark. It could lead to uncomfortable questions.

Still the boy simply glared.

For a long moment, Benjen feared he’d made a grave error. That the boy would tell his fellows about this conversation. He feared it was all over.

Benjen’s breath seemed caught in his throat.

Then the boy brought a shackled hand to his neck and took the wolf pendant from his furs. His eyes were still fire as he gave the trinket to Benjen, but Benjen breathed out all the same. Perhaps not all was lost.

“Thank you, my boy. Take heart. I promise, everything will be alright.”

Benjen turned and stood to pace about the room.

He didn’t notice the open cellar door, where Ryon looked down shrewdly.


	17. Interrogation

_They knew about the caravan._

How long had the Crows been following them? How much did they know? How many men were they gathering to slaughter the Free Folk?

It was nearly all Jon could think of. Even though his hands were still bleeding sluggishly and his wrists were sore from the shackles and the gag cut into the sides of his mouth. And Jon knew he was about to face pain, incredible pain. He was no fool; he knew Crow questioning was not just simple conversation.

But everyone Jon knew, everyone Jon cared about, was in danger. Ulelda and Eira and Tormund and his daughters. There was Elile who had just birthed twins. Or Gjala, who after Harma’s death was still learning to smile again. Even godsdamn Orell didn’t deserve to be picked apart by Crows.

And Ygritte.

_I can’t let them find Ygritte._

Jon was so afraid, so afraid that he’d slip, so afraid that in the pain he’d forget himself and tell the Crows something.

If he got the clans killed, he’d never forgive himself.

Jon wanted to find his space in Ghost’s mind, to tell them, to warn them, and simply to be somewhere else if only for a moment. But Jon barely felt the wolf now.

Sounds were muffled, scents were dulled. He could still sense his second heartbeat, but it felt ever weaker.

Jon almost brought his knees to his chest, curled around himself for a small comfort. He wanted nothing more than to cry.

But he stopped himself. No. He needed to be strong, fearless in front of these men. He needed them to think they could not break him.

He needed to keep his wits together.

When Jon was a boy, Mance had told him about what to do if Crows ever caught them.

“Confuse them,” he’d said. “Mix truth and lies. Mention places that don’t exist and clans long wiped from the world. The Night’s Watch doesn’t know the lands beyond the Wall as well as they think they do.”

Then there was Tormund’s advice. Jon had often begged him for tales of his adventures raiding in the south, begged him for any details about what it was like. And Tormund always told him, endless hours of stories and strategy and warnings.

“If Crows get us,” Tormund had said. “A good raider creates chaos. Struggle, spit, bite, curse. Don’t make it easy for them. Draw things out, give them time to make a mistake. And if you can’t get away, at the very least make them work hard to kill you. Give your fellow Raiders a chance to escape.”

_Confusion and chaos. Simple enough._

He’d done it while fighting in the hills. He could do it again.

Jon took in deep breaths, let them out slow.

The Crows were starting to gather. The tall one was pacing across the floor, the light haired one was whittling with a sharp knife. A third sharpened his shiny sword against a whetstone.

The fourth conscious Crow was still flitting about outside. When he returned, the pain would begin.

_Deep breath in, let it out slow._

They were trapped in the storm. So was the caravan. Jon would keep the Crows here long as he could and give the Free Folk a chance to escape. He’d feed them falsehoods and nonsense and waste their time. He’d make it so when they left this place they’d have no notion of which direction to go.

Maybe he could even use some of them. The tall dark-haired Crow, for one, might be willing to help Jon. Or at least, he’d promised as much a moment ago.

Jon watched the tall Crow walk across the floor, back and forth back and forth. There were scratches on his face. Yes, this was the same Crow Jon had met in the woods. The Crow who’d searched for something in Jon’s face.

After the brutal fight they’d had, Jon didn’t know why this Crow had whispered comfort to him. Didn’t know why he hadn’t told the other Crows they’d met before. He didn’t know why the Crow had hidden Jon’s pendant.

And to be honest, Jon didn’t want to think about the _why_ of it. _Why_ wasn’t important right now. The Crow could be useful, that was what mattered. Maybe he would truly help Jon.

And if he didn’t, Jon could always simply tell the other Crows that the tall one had offered him help and turn them all against each other.

One other Crow looked like he already had suspicions.

_More confusion, more chaos._

And there was one more thing, one last thing Jon could use against the Crows. If it came to that.

He glanced again to the corner where the body lay cold.

When they’d first strapped him on the horse with it, Jon had been terrified. He thought the thing would come back with ice blue eyes any moment to kill him, daytime or no. He thought the Crows had been doing it on purpose, that they were condemning him to a horrible death.

But now, Jon wondered. The Crows were keeping the dead close with them, here in the room where they intended to sleep.

Perhaps Crows didn’t rise. Perhaps they had some magic to prevent it. Perhaps they truly weren’t human at all, as the old stories said.

Or perhaps...they didn’t know. Perhaps they had never seen the living dead. Or at least didn’t know the full truth of them.

It was one of Jon’s worst fears, being trapped in a room with such a creature. Especially as he was helpless, chained.

But if the body did rise and kill the Crows, it’d be worth it. Even if Jon died too.

Jon would endure the horror, would endure his own death. It would be worth it to see these men, these dangers to everyone he loved, dead.

Jon swallowed. He tried not to think of Gledb, of the terror he had felt in the mist and snow.

He would be brave now. He must be.

The door creaked open and the last Crow entered. Winter wind entered with him, and Jon shivered in the cold.

The door slammed shut.

_Jon breathed in, let it out slow._

It was time to begin.

* * *

The murder of Crows loomed over Jon, their beady eyes boring into him.

The tall one walked across the room towards him with slow, purposeful steps.

The Crow grabbed a chair and placed it directly in front of Jon. He perched himself on it.

There’d been some argument among them, which of them should actually do the interrogating. The tall Crow had been insistent that he do it. Something about how he'd "keep the prisoner fit to travel, but would still make it hurt."

He won.

Jon had looked on, dread settling into every muscle in his body. The tall Crow looked so eager to take Jon apart. _I thought you said you’d help me._

“Let’s start simply.”

_Breathe in, out slow._

“My name’s Benjen. What’s your name?”

“Orell,” Jon lied.

There was a glimmer of something, sorrow perhaps, behind the Crow’s eyes. But it was gone as soon as it’d come.

“Good start, boy.” The Crow leaned closer. “These hills can be brutal. Especially with winter coming. What brings you here?”

“I was hunting deer.” A little truth to sell the lie.

One of the Crows snorted.

“Were you?” the tall Crow leaned forward. “Do you live around here?”

“Why would I hunt somewhere I didn’t live?”

“You tell me.”

_Breathe in, out slow._

“Yes, I live around here.”

“Care to tell us where?”

“What, so a bunch of ugly Crows can pick through my things and steal them?”

“Like we’d want your dirty furs and old bones,” said the light haired Crow, leaning against the wall.

Jon gestured around their shelter disdainfully, shackles clanking.

“I live in better than this hovel, Crow,” Jon spat. “Is everyone in your order too stupid to build a proper hut?”

“Fine talk from some cave dwelling savage.”

“Even a cave dwelling savage can how pathetic you Crows-”

“This is off topic,” the tall Crow said. “Where do you live?”

Jon glared at him. The Crow leaning against the wall had been fuming, ready to start shouting. A few more words and he would’ve been ready to settle Jon with hectic punches instead of cold organized pain.

But that was gone now. The light haired Crow was already calming.

The tall dark-haired Crow looked so smug.

_I thought you said you were going to help me?_

_Breathe in, out slow._

“It’s as this one says, I live in a cave in the hills with a bunch of dirty furs and old bones.”

The lie was obvious. But the tall Crow simply nodded.

“We saw a path traveled by a few hundred Wildlings nearby. Have you noticed any visitors in your hills?”

“No.”

“You’ve heard no voices? Seen no fires? Had no one stealing your kills?”

“I said no already.”

“Seems strange that you’d fail to notice such a large group in your territory.”

“Well I did see a great group of mammoths come through, they could have worn down your path.”

“Those weren’t mammoth tracks, boy,” another Crow rumbled.

“If you’re too stupid to build a proper hut, seems obvious you’d get mammoth and man feet all confused.” Jon grinned sharply.

The tall Crow answered him with a cold grin of his own.

“Marston, give me those sticks you were whittling.”

Another Crow fetched something, several small thin rods, from a cloak pocket. Handed them to the tall Crow.

“Do you know what these are, boy?”

“Twigs?”

The Crow’s cold smile never faltered.

“I’m going to push these under your fingernails. I’m going to do it slowly. And slowly it will rip through the flesh between your finger and your nail. You might think this won’t be too painful. It will.”

The tall Crow was leaning forward, looked like he couldn’t wait for Jon’s screams.

Jon felt a fool for ever having even considered this man would help him.

His breathing was ragged. The metal of the shackles was cold against his wrists.

There was a silent Crow set in the corner of the room. He watched the tall one with distrust.

_Turn them against each other._

“So, tell me. Do you know anything about a large band of Wildlings?”

_Be brave._

Jon set his jaw.

“No.”

The tall Crow shifted back in his chair. Jon looked to the silent Crow in the corner. Caught his eyes.

“But I know the other Crows shouldn’t trus-”

Jon never had the chance to finish this sentence, to plant seeds of mistrust between the Crows. For the tall Crow had closed the distance between them and hit Jon hard across the face. Jon tasted blood.

The tall Crow started to grab at Jon’s hands, so Jon kicked out and swore and growled. The tall Crow placed a hand over his mouth, and as Jon tried to bite at his fingers, he heard the slightest whisper in his ear.

“When I poke you, scream. Scream loud.”

Jon was confused, then felt the barest prick on his finger.

For a moment, Jon felt disoriented.

The tall Crow wasn’t driving the sticks under his nails, wasn’t drawing blood. He'd twisted Jon’s hand behind his back, out of sight of the others.

 _He’s pretending,_ Jon realized in a flash. _He wants me to pretend too._

The tall Crow poked again, insistently, and Jon remembered he was supposed to be screaming.

He drew breath into his lungs and shrieked.

* * *

It went on like this for quite a while. The Crow would ask questions that Jon wouldn’t answer, and then he’d pretend to drive small sticks under Jon’s fingernails, or pretend to twist his arms sharply, or give Jon slaps that were more loud than they were painful. And Jon would twitch and beg and pretend to scream.

At times Jon felt a bit ridiculous, like a child play acting. But he knew this needed to seem real, lest the other Crows catch them in their lie.

Jon hoped the display was convincing. Somehow he doubted that Tormund or Ygritte or Mance would be fooled by such a thing.

And the largely silent Crow in the corner kept meeting Jon’s eyes, as if searching to see if the pain was genuine.

Jon had no idea why the tall Crow, this Benjen, was doing this. Was deceiving his so-called Brothers. But in the quiet moments, between his pretend tortures, Jon took long looks at him. Long dark hair, sharp face, dark eyes.

_He looks like me._

When this thought came to Jon, his mind teetered on the edge of horror, revulsion.

_He looks like me. What if he’s my-_

But Jon wouldn’t let himself fully complete the thought.

_Later. That’s for later. I have to get through this now._

Even though his tortures were more fake than real, Jon still felt wrung dry. Voice hoarse from screaming, arms sore from being chained, injured hands still throbbing, no food or water. 

His face was covered in drying blood. For at one point, the tall Crow had subtly cut Jon along his hairline as he pretended to bang Jon’s face into the wall. The cut itself seemed very shallow, it had barely stung. But it had bled heavily. Jon supposed this looked gruesome, which was of course the point. The blood helped convince the others the torture was real, was painful. But now Jon was truly getting lightheaded. He needed water.

The Crows were taking a few minutes rest. _They_ had water, had food. Obviously, they would not give any to Jon. But at least he had a moment to breathe.

The tall Crow was encouraging the others to scout briefly through the storm, look quickly to ensure the “Wildlings” were not seeking their lost man. One Crow, the suspicious Crow, was arguing they should wait until the storm fully died down.

Jon wished he find some way to tell Ygritte where he was, tell her how many fighters to bring with her.

He tried again to relax and find his place in Ghost’s mind, but all that came when he tried was a sharp pain in his ribs. Pain that curled around him close and lingered.

Jon whined. Loud. Too loud.

The Crows heard him. Four men in black turned as one. Two of them were laughing. Short barking laughs. High and sharp and cold.

Jon tried again not to curl in on himself. He kept thinking of Ghost on the ground. _Is he even still alive?_

Jon screwed his eyes shut. He was so hungry, so tired. And he didn’t understand what was happening, why these Crows were acting so strange.

He tried to pretend for a moment that he was somewhere else.

“Boy.”

Jon kept his eyes shut. He could feel tears on his face, and he hated himself for being so weak. For giving the Crows a weapon to mock him with.

There was a gentle hand at his shoulder.

“Boy, it’s alright. We’re alone. Have some food, water.”

Jon opened his eyes. Through his tears, he could see the tall Crow, Benjen, holding out some dried meat. A cup of water.

He wanted to take it. This Crow had helped him, made his pain less. But he was still half afraid it’d be poisoned. That this was all part of a game he didn’t understand.

The Crow seemed to understand his hesitation. He bit off a bit of the meat. Chewed. Swallowed.

That was all Jon needed.

He grabbed for the meat, the water, and the Crow gave it to him and stood.

“Quickly now, the others could be back soon.”

Jon ate greedily, drank greedily. It felt over far too soon.

When he was finished, he looked up at the Crow. He’d been staring down at Jon but now looked away, trying to pretend he hadn’t been. He turned and paced across the floor.

"That little whine of yours was well timed. Convinced the others you were too out of it to attack me when we were alone."

Jon didn't answer the Crow. He was too busy thinking.

_Why are you helping me? Why did you capture me? Are you my fath-_

**_No._ **

No, Jon wouldn’t let himself ask that question, even in his own head.

Still, thoughts came to Jon quickly. He had to ask something. Had to know at least a little piece of the _why._

But then he looked to the body in the corner. Looked to the long muted light stretching in under the door.

The sun would be down soon.

This Crow could help him. _Had helped him._ Jon didn’t want him to die. Not yet.

So Jon made a decision.

“You need to burn the body.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry for the length between updates, it's been a busy week.


	18. Arguments

The tall Crow stopped pacing the floor. He paused, turned, looked at Jon. Confusion writ all over his face.

“Excuse me?”

“You need to burn the body,” Jon repeated, voice more urgent. “Burn it now, before the sun goes down.”

A strange shadow was passing over the Crow, Benjen’s, face.

He started to speak, paused, then tried again.

“That’s not what I expected you to...I know...I know you’ve likely been raised on legends and old tales-”

“I’m not talkin’ about legends or old tales. I’ve seen them, the dead rise, with my own eyes.”

The Crow was staring, shaking his head. Yet something, some buried dread was sparking in his expression.

Still, he denied it.

“Boy, I’ve seen many people die here, beyond the Wall, in my years. The dead don’t come back. Those old tales, the wights and White Walkers. If they ever existed, they’re gone. I'm...I'm fairly certain.”

“They aren’t gone!” Jon was almost yelling now. He needed this Crow to understand. “The dead stayed down once but now the ice gods bring them back!”

The Crow still shook his head.

Jon’s voice was harsh, hushed. “You Crows spend all this time hunting us here, away from your damned Wall. Haven’t you heard whispers? Haven’t you seen the ice eyes stare at you from the trees?”

He had. Jon could tell. Could tell by the fear that settled over the Crow’s brow.

Jon tried to hammer that fear into action.

“You need to burn him, and you need to do it now, else-”

The door burst open, bringing in wind and snow and muted winter light.

The three other Crows strode into the room.

“Snow’s still too thick to see anything Benjen; we’ll have to wait until it dies down.”

“I tell you, it’s colder than a wood witch’s teat out there. If one of the Seven Hells isn’t just ice beyond the Wall, then I’m a damn Targaryen Queen.”

Two of the Crows were chatting, cheery, distracted. But the third, the silent suspicious Crow, just stared at Jon. It took him a moment to realize why.

The empty water cup Benjen had given him was still in Jon’s hands.

He dropped it, quickly.

The silent Crow looked at Benjen accusingly. Benjen simply stared back.

The other two Crows finally seemed to catch on to the tension in the room.

“What, Benjen, did you finally get something out of this little shit?”

The tall Crow rolled his shoulders and seemed to come to a decision.

“He just told me we should burn Garse’s body.”

There was silence for a moment. Jon’s breath was coming quick.

Then the light haired Crow began laughing uproariously.

“Gods I love hearing about their barbaric little superstitions. Have you ever heard that one they tell about how we’re all great birds their gods plucked from the sky?”

The Crow flapped his arms around and cawed mockingly. His friend was laughing too. There was pain in the back of Jon’s jaw as he ground his teeth together.

The light haired Crow bent down, nose nearly touching Jon’s own. Jon wondered if he could get close enough to bite it off.

“Now listen, little savage. I’m sure you’re very very afraid of ghosts and dead bodies. But here in the real-”

“I agree with him.”

At Benjen’s determined voice, the Crows stopped laughing and stared at him. No one spoke.

“I agree with him,” the man continued finally. “We’ve all heard rumors of things rising beyond the Wall. We all know that things here are not always just legends.”

“Benjen, you can’t be serio-”

“Did you think giants or wargs were real when you were a child? Before you came to the Wall? After the things we’ve all seen, we cannot afford to be cynical. We don’t know all that’s out there. We should burn the body, just to be safe.”

The light haired Crow looked up in disbelief.

“Benjen, this is different than giants or wargs or odd stray magics. The dead don’t come back. We know that. The Seven say the dead are dead, and Garse believed in The Seven.”

“This isn’t about religion-”

“Of course it is,” piped up another Crow. “Garse should get a proper burial, but this dirty Wildling is afraid of ghosts and wants him burned to appease his savage tree gods. Simple as that.”

Benjen’s expression shifted, he seemed almost offended. The smaller Crow quickly amended, “Now you know I don’t mean it like that. Your Northern tree religion is much more civilized than whatever the Wildlings do.”

Benjen's glare was still harsh, but he cleared his throat and moved on.

“As I said, this isn’t about our religions or beliefs. We’ve all heard the rumors the Wildlings are scared of something, we’ve all heard the rumors that’s why they’re banding together. And the boy seemed truly terrified when he told me to burn the body. You don’t get that kind of terror from old tales.”

“I’ve had enough of this.”

A cold voice cut through the room. Jon looked up.

The silent, suspicious Crow had spoken at last.

He pointed, nastily, at Jon.

“This thing got one of our brothers killed. We let it live, supposedly for information. But what information has he given us?”

The Crows were silent.

“All it’s told us are some child’s superstitions. Getting us all worked up about magic and nonsense. But it’s not told us who it is, what clan it’s with, where they’re all going, what they plan to do, or anything fucking useful. I don’t know why it’s still breathing.”

No one spoke for a long moment. Jon tried to gulp his fear down down.

“Ryon-”

“I don’t want to hear anything from you, Benjen. You’ve been going soft on it all day. You’re First Ranger, you should know better.”

“Ryon-”

“I know it’s got a pretty face. Maybe you think it’s just a boy. But this thing would see us all dead if it had half a chance. You want it to talk, don’t be so kind to it.”

The large Crow rushed to Jon and yanked him up roughly by the front of his furs. Jon’s wrists were pulled hard against his shackles.

He could see only the Crow’s angry bloodshot eyes, smell only his stinking breath.

Jon tried to be cold, fearless, as he stared back.

The big Crow had a knife out, suddenly.

“Ryon!” he heard from somewhere, distantly. The voice sounded alarmed.

But neither Jon nor the Crow in front of him paid attention.

“So what is it, beast?” the massive man ground out. “You got anything useful to say? Anything at all that will lead us to your stinking band of thieves?”

Jon stared into his enemy’s eyes. He’d never seen such hatred.

The kind Crow was forgotten. The body was forgotten. Let the dead take them all. It didn’t matter, so long as the caravan was safe. _So long as Ygritte was safe._

Jon spat in the big Crow’s face.

The man threw Jon onto the ground hard and did something with the knife and suddenly there was pain **_pain_** in Jon’s leg.

There were blows then, at Jon’s face. They rang through his skull, and there were yells and hands grabbing at them and _gods it hurt_ and Jon _couldn’t be there anymore._

Something snapped into place in Jon’s head and suddenly he was somewhere else.

* * *

His side ached and echoes of injury still rang through him, but he was warm, and the bedding was soft around his fur, and he was well fed.

Ulelda was there, rubbing his ears and singing an old lullaby. He turned his nose and breathed in the scent of home.

He stayed there for a long time, half asleep, listless. Feeling a bit unreal. He didn’t want to ever go.

Ulelda’s hands were so warm in his fur.

He could stay here, sink here, be a wolf for the rest of his days.

But there was something tugging in his ears, some noise that needed his attention.

Screaming.

It wasn’t his own.

Jon felt himself pulled away from home, away from safety, back into his body.

* * *

He was lying on a cold floor. There was pain. It was dark.

The Crows were yelling something. None of them were touching him.

Jon looked through bleary eyes.

The Crows were all crowded in the far side of the room. A dark shape approached them.

Jon looked to the corner. The body was gone.

_So this was finally happening then._

He should be more scared. But he was just so, _so-_

Jon let out a long, tired breath.

The cold shape turned. Rattled. Jon saw cold blue eyes.

_Oh._

The shape was making it’s way towards him.

He should do something.

“F-Fire,” Jon said weakly. “Fire, you need fire.”

The dead thing was pulling at Jon’s legs, his arms.

“Fire,” Jon repeated, over and over again.

Could they hear him? Did they care? 

“Fire, fire, fire!”

And then, fire was there.

The thing was burning above him. Burning away.

It felt warm.

The body finally fell, truly dead.

Jon breathed out again. He was so tired.

The last thing he saw was a kind face and dark hair, cradling him in a warm lap. It was almost like home.

* * *

Over the next few days, Jon drifted in and out of consciousness. He was a wolf sometimes, a chained man other times.

He found he much preferred the wolf, but something in him wouldn’t let his mind stay too long.

The Crows seemed in a sort of shock. Seeing a ridiculous old superstition come to life seemed to distract them from the caravan, from hurting Jon.

They spoke in hushed tones often about what this meant, about what they should do.

The kind Crow, Benjen, helped tend Jon’s wounds, gave him food and water. Apparently, it was he who set the dead creature ablaze, who saved Jon’s life.

Jon could tell the other Crows disapproved. Especially the big, angry one who had stabbed Jon in the leg, had beaten his face.

Jon brought a shackled hand to his swollen cheek.

Apparently they were willing to leave Jon be, for now.

Jon wasn’t sure if this was because the kind Crow was clearly some kind of leader and they were respecting his wishes, or if they were too awed by seeing the ice god’s work to continue their tortures.

It seemed unfair the dead man had not taken any of the Crows with him. Even the injured Crow, who had spent the vast majority of their time in this place asleep, seemed set to make a full recovery. Soon Jon would be more outnumbered than ever.

But he had an ally now. Or at least, a kind of ally.

Jon slid his eyes over to Benjen. The Crow was crushing something in a bowl. 

He should try to find out this one’s plans. Find out if they were...if they truly were to each other what Jon suspected they might be.

For then maybe, just maybe, Jon could convince Benjen to set him free.

* * *

It had been several days since the dead rose, and Jon felt more himself. His head had stopped ringing, he was staying awake longer and longer. He even thought he might be able to walk a bit, provided he used a stick.

The Crows, too, seemed more themselves, and were preparing to set out again, to travel. Jon pretended to sleep, ears sharp as he listened to their plans.

“We need to learn more,” one was saying. “This might be what took Royce and his rangers. We can’t just leave them.”

“We could ride to the Milkwater, follow the lead Craster gave us.”

“That old pervert knows nothing, he’ll say anything to keep himself comfortable.”

“We should split up.” That was Benjen. “The boy might still have some information to give us, but traveling with him will be difficult. Yet we cannot stop this range, not yet. There is too much happening to fully turn back. I will take one of the horses and the boy back to Castle Black for further questioning, the rest of you will proceed on. Travel to the Milkwater, stop by our usual camps. Question whoever you can. Follow Wildlings, listen to them.”

Jon, did not dare to open his eyes to see how this was received. He was nervous that many of the Crows planned to ride on west. But a few injured, weary Crows, some on foot, were much less dangerous to the Free Folk than a strong mounted force of six.

What worried him more was Benjen’s plan to take him to the black castle. Jon had been taught since childhood to fear that place, to never set foot within fifty leagues of it. It was a castle full of horror, of tortures for one such as him. Jon thought again of Wise Mother Majar, who went into that castle and never came out.

But this Crow had been kind to him. Surely once they were riding alone, Jon would be able to convince the Crow to set him free. Let him go home, to Ygritte.

And if he didn’t, Jon could try to overpower him.

There were noises from the Crows, and Jon pulled his mind back to the present. They seemed to be agreeing with this plan, and Jon tried not to smile. He would likely be home soon, laughing with Tormund, safe in Ygritte’s arms-

“I’ll ride with you to Castle Black.”

Jon’s stomach dropped.

That was the angry Crow. The one who’d stabbed Jon, beat him.

“Ryon, I need you with the others, a good tracker-”

“Jafer’s near as good a tracker as I am. And with respect, you need me. You’re too soft on that thing. We can all see it. If you don’t let me go, it’ll have slit your throat and run by the end of the first day.”

“Ryon the boy can barely walk-”

“Benjen, I agree with Ryon. I know that thing looks like a sweet boy, but you’ll need more than one to handle it.”

There were noises of assent at this.

Jon chanced a quick glance at the circle of Crows.

Benjen’s mouth was set in a long, thin line.

“Alright,” he said. “Ryon, you’ll ride with me. We’ll prepare tomorrow, set out at first light the following day.”

Jon felt sick.

He’d never be able to talk to this Benjen now. Not with the cruel Crow there.

And with his leg, his hands damaged, his odds of overpowering them both were low.

Jon felt the despair take hold again.

_What if I never get away, what if I never see them again, what if I never see **her** again._

The Crows were toasting something, cheering something. Singing some song.

Jon was in no mood to listen.

He curled up and breathed in the cold dirt floor, using the scent to guide him somewhere else.

* * *

He was in warm white fur, and he felt safe again.

He was laying on someone. He scented home. But something was different something smelled-

There was long red hair below him. A familiar face. A crying face.

The wolf’s heart flipped. He whined a little.

He licked at her tears, tried to wipe them away.

Ygritte turned, and looked at the wolf, looked in his eyes, and she was laughing suddenly. It was beautiful.

He licked at her face and snuggled into her warmth, and she was saying something. Words were hard for a wolf’s ears, but they sounded like love.

He’d get back to her, somehow. He’d bring himself home.


	19. Fireside

The journey was dismal from the start.

First there was the issue of the horse. Jon needed to ride; his leg was not up to heavy travel through snow. But most of the Crows were upset that one of their precious remaining horses must be wasted on the “vicious Wildling” who’d killed most of their mounts in the first place.

Furthermore, Jon had never actually ridden a horse before. The closest he’d come was being tied to one by the Crows a few days before.

The horse was huge and intimidating and something in it _hated_ Jon.

The beast whinnied constantly whenever it was near him, tried to throw him more than once. And the hatred was mutual; something about the horse made Jon nervous. He hated the size of it, hated those giant hooves. It was all Jon could do not to bare his teeth and growl.

The various difficulties with getting Jon on the beast caused another round of debate amongst the Crows about whether they should just kill Jon and be done with it. Jon had barely avoided a knife between his ribs; only Benjen’s insistence had prevented the other Crows from gutting him.

Then there was the tedium and tension of the traveling itself.

Jon had thought he’d find himself relieved when most of the men in black were finally gone. Thought he’d calmed by the more even numbers, by the knowledge he’d only have to slip past two Crows rather than a whole handfull.

But at least the other Crows had been full of chatter. As disgusting as Jon found most of their talk, it was something to listen to, something to distract Jon from his thoughts.

When most of the Crows left for the Milkwater, only stony silence remained. The uneasiness between Benjen and the angry Crow, Ryon, lay heavy in the air. They only spoke about essential business; who was keeping watch, who was fetching firewood, water.

Ryon spent most of their time traveling glaring up at Jon, who glared right back. And Benjen seemed hesitant to approach conversation with Jon at all with Ryon in earshot.

This resulted in days and days of hushed anger, where the sun seemed to take ages to go through the sky.

Jon constantly thought of running; thought of taking off at night on foot or stealing the horse.

But the horse didn’t seem to want to obey him. It wouldn’t have moved forward at all if Benjen hadn’t led it. And Jon still could barely walk. He was not fast enough now to get away on foot.

His best shot was that they’d run across some other Free Folk. Jon found constantly himself wishing for a village, a small camp, a stray hunter, anything. He kept his eyes wide, searching the treeline for smoke from fires, searching the ground for tracks. At night, he added too much wood to the cookfire at camp, stoking it large, trying to create a beacon. He hoped someone, anyone, would see them, would hear them.

But the Crows knew how to move through this land quietly. And the Free Folk knew to steer clear of them.

Jon still wondered if he could convince Benjen to set him free. But he had no idea how to start that conversation. The only time Jon and Benjen were alone together were the late nights when Ryon took second watch. And for the first several days of the trip, Benjen bedded down immediately and let sleep claim him. Jon felt completely alone. 

So Jon spent his days in tense boredom, trying to ignore the pain from his various injures.

And he spent his nights drifting in Ghost’s mind.

He _lived_ for those moments. Home again cuddling with Ygritte, playing with Tormund. Sometimes others were there, like Eira or Ulelda, and it was so _so_ good to see them. To be at home. To feel safe.

It became harder and harder to come back.

He hated returning to his human body. Hated returning to the silence and the pain and the sense of hopelessness.

He considered again simply sinking into Ghost and letting the wolf's mind claim him.

But finally, on the fourth night of the journey, something changed.

* * *

Jon had been enjoying the warmth of Ygritte against his fur when he was roughly pulled from Ghost by the sounds of loud footsteps. Jon jerked up, suddenly awake.

Nothing to worry about. Just Benjen back from first watch, picking his way across the camp in the moonlight.

Jon sighed, and lay back on his bedroll. Benjen lay down to sleep as well. There was a long stretching silence, and Jon was trying to find his way to the wolf again when -

“You’ve seen them before?”

Jon woke a bit, confused. Unsure if the Crow was addressing him.

“Seen who?” he returned finally.

“The dead. Waking up like that. You told me you’d seen it before.” Benjen’s voice was quiet, questioning.

The fire was crackling low. Jon shifted a bit in his bedroll.

“Yes. A few times now.”

Benjen hummed. “How long has this been happening?”

Jon paused, cautious. Why was he bringing this up now?

After a long moment, Benjen sighed. “Apologies, boy. I’m not trying to interrogate you. I just…seeing that...it’s been on my mind much the past few days.”

Jon turned, propping himself up on one elbow to look at the Crow.

His face was drawn, worried, exhausted.

Jon had swore to tell the Crows nothing. But Benjen...Benjen had been mostly kind. And the ice gods seemed to care little if a man was Free Folk or Crow. This knowledge might actually be worthy of sharing.

“The first time was a few years ago,” he began. “Several children in our camp went missing. We found them, dead, in the woods. Thought maybe a shadowcat had gotten them. Brought them back to camp so we could mourn them, bury them. But then the sun went down, and they started to move.”

He shuddered, remembering.

“One of them, little Uli, she’d been near cut in half. But still, she started to move. To walk towards us. They attacked any that approached them. Wouldn’t stop if you stuck weapons in them. Only fire did it in the end. I...I still see them. When I sleep sometimes.”

Benjen starred at Jon, face grave.

“I’m sorry you had to see such a thing, boy. You should never have been exposed to that.”

Jon huffed out a sad little laugh.

“No one should, I don’t think.”

The Crow didn’t respond for a long time.

Jon listened to the crackling fire, to the wind rustling through the trees.

“No,” Jon finally heard. He looked back at Benjen. The Crow was staring up at the stars; he seemed far away. “No, they shouldn’t.”

Jon turned back towards the fire, stared into the small flames.

“It’s not the only time I’ve seen them. Just a few moons ago we had to fight a patrol who turned.”

Jon shivered thinking of Glebd’s insides pouring from his stomach.

“I’d never seen them before,” came Benjen’s quiet voice. “I’ve been at the Wall nearly twenty years. Seen so many die. Sometimes I thought I saw something watching me through the trees. Cold eyes. But I’d never seen the dead rise before.”

A log shifted, the flames sparked.

“Elders say the ice gods used to only come hunt once a generation. But now they hunt us always, near every time the sun dips below the sky.”

“Why?” The Crow’s voice was surprisingly harsh. “Why now?”

Jon had asked himself the same question many times over the last few moons. “They’re gods. Maybe it’s not for us to know the why.”

The Crow shifted uncomfortably. “Boy, whatever these things are, they aren’t gods. Gods are well...gods. The old stories all say these things can be fought. They say our ancestors fought back. Defeated them. Built the Wall to defend the Realms of Men from their return.”

Jon turned quickly, angrily. When he spoke, his voice was a shade too loud.

“What the Free Folk aren’t men then? It’s alright for the ice gods to pick us off because the fat southern lords and Winter Kings are safe on the other side?”

The Crow sighed. “That’s not what I meant, boy. I simply wanted to say that these things can perhaps be fought. Was just repeating lines from the old tales. But my words were poorly chosen, and I’m sorry.”

Some of the fight left Jon. He fell back in his bedroll and huffed. “Our tales tell it different. And who’s to say you can’t fight the gods?”

The Crow had seemingly no response to this, and they lay in silence for a long time.

“Tell me one,” the Crow said suddenly.

“Tell you one what?”

“A Wildling tale of the fight against your ‘ice gods.’”

Jon was surprised. “Why?”

The Crow’s eyes were shining in the firelight.

“When I was a lad, I loved those stories. Old Nan, who looked after us, used to tell grand tales of fighting White Walkers. I could listen to her stories for hours. When I got a little older, my father gifted me a giant old book from some maester who collected all the different legends of the Long Night from different cultures.”

The Crow smiled, a bit sadly. “It was one of the reasons I wanted to join the Watch. But there were no stories in the book from beyond the Wall. I’ve never heard how the Wildlings speak of it.”

Jon settled in his furs, curious. “I didn’t know anyone else told tales about the ice gods. Thought it was just us.”

The Crow’s smile grew a little warmer. “How about this then. We’ll trade. You tell me yours, and I’ll tell you an old tale of the Long Night from somewhere else.”

Jon was curious. Curious to hear what other people said of the great heroes he’d heard tell of his whole life.

He nodded and sat up a little, trying to get the fire to cast the right sort of shadows on his face.

“There once was a man so arrogant, he called himself the King of Winter…”

* * *

Jon told the story as best he could. He knew he was no match for Tormund in storytelling, and he didn’t want to be so loud so as to get the attention of the other Crow on patrol. But he tried to tell the story well, pitch the words up and down in the right places, give a sense of the oldness of it, the importance of it. He spoke of the War of Winter, of the Free People. Of Agror the Lightbringer who drew his spear of fire from the heavens to bring the fight to an end.

For much of it, Benjen seemed intrigued, even impressed. But as the story shifted to tales of the Wall and the Crows and the craven King named Stark, his expression changed. Jon almost stopped at one point, thinking perhaps it was foolish to tell a Crow how they were painted in Free Folk legends, but Benjen gestured for him to continue.

When he finished, the Crow looked at Jon for a long moment. “That’s quite a tale,” he said finally.

“I...we know that you Crows aren’t really birds plucked from the sky. That’s just how the story goes.” Jon said a bit lamely.

The Crow smiled. It didn’t meet his eyes. “I imagine you do. You told the tale well boy.” He sighed. “Well, time for my end of it I suppose.”

Benjen told a version of the story from a people he called the Rhoynar. It told of freezing waters and dying crops, of a cold that spread and spread until a hero convinced all the children of the river Rhoyne, the Crab King and the Old Man and many others, to join together in a secret song that brought light and warmth back to the world.

The Crow was distracted in the telling, but Jon still enjoyed the story. He thought it sounded sweet, all these heroes joined together to save the world with a song.

The stars were starting to fade from the sky by the time Benjen finished, and they decided to try to get at least an hour’s rest before they needed to wake for the day’s traveling. But just as sleep tugged as Jon’s eyes he heard Benjen say -

“In your story, there was more about the Starks than I expected.”

Jon yawned, eyes still closed. “The Winter Kings built the Wall. It’s them that trapped the Free Folk, and them that keep the Free Folk trapped.”

“The Starks haven’t been kings for a long time.”

“Winter Lords then, same thing.”

There was a long silence. Then, “Goodnight, Orell.”

“Hmm?” Jon hummed, half-asleep, confused.

He heard the Crow shift.

“Orell? You said, you said that was your name back in the hills. When I was asking you questions.”

“Oh.” Shit. He’d forgotten.

Another sigh. “You were lying. Of course.”

Benjen sounded surprisingly disappointed.

Jon weighed his options. It was, again, stupidity to give a Crow anything. And maybe he’d already said too much, about the ice gods and the dead he’d fought.

But this Crow had saved his life. Surely he owed him at least a name.

Jon opened his eyes.

“Don’t tell the other Crow but...it’s Jon. My name’s Jon.”

Jon thought this bit of honesty might have cheered the Crow. But instead a deep sadness seemed to sink into his eyes.

He thought again of how Benjen had searched his face that very first day they’d met.

“Jon,” Benjen repeated. He said nothing for a long moment.

When the man didn't speak again, Jon finally lay his head back down. He curled into his bedroll. Drifted in the silence.

Just before sleep claimed him, he heard the Crow whisper again, his voice barely audible above the whistle of the wind.

_“Jon.”_


	20. Choices

Jon and Benjen spent many late nights chatting instead of sleeping.

They talked about a hundred little things; food and childhood and old legends. Jon was surprised that he enjoyed these small conversations with Benjen so much. Maybe he was simply a bit starved for connection, but Jon found himself almost _liking_ the Crow.

They began to interact a bit during the day as well. Subtle things. Jon helped Benjen with the cooking, Benjen gave Jon an extra portion of food. Benjen would help Jon move on his injured leg, would hand him his walking stick when it was out of reach. They’d share small smiles as they traveled, pats on the back.

But they had to be cautious in these things. For Jon didn’t miss the way the other Crow, Ryon, looked at him. Like he was a poison. Like Jon was a snake that would strike at Benjen and take his life.

Jon hated spending time alone with the other Crow. He feared sleep when Benjen was gone on watch. Feared turning his back. Jon would glance across the fire and see barely concealed violence in every line of the angry Crow’s body.

He’d wait until he heard the man’s breaths even out before catching sleep himself or trying to warg his way to Ygritte. For Jon knew it was only Benjen’s demand that kept the other Crow from stabbing him, from leaving him in a shallow grave to rise in the night.

Once, as they set down camp and Benjen gathered firewood in the far distance, Jon heard a low voice from the shadows.

“Don’t talk to us.”

Jon didn’t move. He dragged his eyes over to where the angry Crow sat.

Ryon was dragging a steel knife over a whetstone. When he spoke, his voice was mixed with its scraping, slow rasp.

In the growing darkness, Jon could scarcely make out the features of his face. But he could still see hatred in the whites of the Crow’s eyes.

Jon didn’t speak.

The angry Crow spat on the ground, and continued.

“I know you’re whispering things to Benjen. I don’t know what you’re saying to him, what you’re doing to him, but he doesn’t need your nonsense Wildling speak. So shut your mouth at night. Else.”

He pointed the blade at Jon for emphasis, met his eyes for a long moment.

Jon turned away from the Crow, trying not to listen to the sound of a sharp blade on stone.

He barely slept that night.

When Benjen returned from first watch, Jon considered staying quiet, considered leaving him be.

But Jon wasn’t a child. He was a man of the Free Folk. He wouldn’t let some old Crow tell him what to do.

So the nightly conversations with Benjen continued.

For Jon, in the back of his mind, knew these conversations were a chance. His _best_ chance at freedom.

He could tell Benjen was growing to like him too. Benjen would laugh at Jon’s jokes, tell him stories.

He saw that Benjen didn’t like the way the angry Crow looked at Jon, talked to Jon, enjoyed watching Jon struggle with his injuries.

Jon was almost certain he could convince Benjen to free him. Almost certain that if he asked soon, the Crow would let him go. He just needed to say the right words, ask the right question.

And there was...another question Jon wanted the answer to as well.

This other question was on the tip of his tongue as he rode, as he made camp, as they spoke at night. But Jon wasn’t sure he’d ever work up the courage to ask it.

But Jon was running out of time. They were traveling closer and closer to the Black Castle. Jon could see the Wall on the horizon now. If he was going to make his bid for freedom, he needed to do it soon.

And then, finally, the opportunity presented itself.

* * *

He’d been had been enjoying precious time in wolf skin. Eira had been there, rubbing his ears, staring into Ghost’s eyes. She’d called for Ygritte and the redhead came quickly; bow across her back, boots on. He licked at her ears, nuzzled her neck.

Tormund was behind her, battle axe in his hands, and they were saying something, something important -

A twig snapped by Jon’s ear and pulled him back to humanity. Benjen was walking past him, making his way towards his bedroll. He was looking at Jon closely, too closely. It made him nervous.

“It’s a clear night,” Jon said, hoping to ease that feeling away.

Benjen hummed in agreement as he lay on the ground. All was quiet for a moment when he settled himself.

He turned to look at Jon’s anxious face.

“Jon, you know I’ve noticed those white eyes of yours.”

Every muscle in Jon’s body tensed.

“I’ve seen skinchanging magic before. I know what it looks like. Are you a warg?”

Jon said nothing. He didn’t know what to do.

Benjen huffed out a small laugh. “Boy, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just curious. I’ve never had a real conversation with a warg before.”

Jon sniffed. _Fuck it._ He could trust Benjen with this.

“Well, turns out you’ve been talking to a warg near every night.”

Benjen looked fascinated. “Ever since I learned the old skinchanging tales were real here, I’ve wondered about it. Is it true you have to bond to one animal, or can you take many?”

Jon dragged his mind back to lessons with Orell, thinking. “I have heard of some who can take more than one. I think my old teacher told me of a man who has six beasts to his name. But I only have one.”

“What is it?”

“I’m a direwolf.”

Benjen truly laughed then. “I suppose there’s a kind of sense in that.”

Jon didn’t quite know what Benjen meant, but before he could ask, the Crow continued.

“What’s it like?”

Jon paused, thinking. “Warm,” he said finally.

“Warm?” Benjen repeated in curious disbelief.

Jon nodded. “There’s just something about being able to curl up in fur, about being pet by Yg-”

Jon froze. He shut his mouth quickly, pushed the words down.

He liked this Crow, even trusted him a bit. But he wouldn’t give him Ygritte’s name.

Benjen, however, had noticed this pause.

“Being pet by what?”

Jon said nothing.

“Boy, truly, I am simply curious.”

_Keep it vague._

“I go home, when I warg. And I get to see her again. My...my wife.”

Jon heard a sharp indrawn breath. When he looked at Benjen’s face, true shock was written across his expression.

“I didn’t know you were married,” he said softy after several seconds of still silence.

Jon knew Benjen was upset, knew something in his words had deeply affected the Crow. But he still couldn’t help the smile that came to his lips when he thought of Ygritte.

“She’s perfect. She’s a good hunter, a good fighter. She’s funny and she knows how to do everything and she looks at me with this little smirk sometimes and she’s just _perfect_.”

Still the Crow stayed silent.

Jon thought of how Ygritte had looked that night in the cave, firelight bouncing off her hair.

“We’d been married less than a quarter moon before you captured me. And we weren’t looking for trouble, we were just out hunting. We’d made a bet about who could slay a doe first.”

Benjen had put a hand over his face. Jon was lost, lost in the last moment he’d seen her with human eyes, and the words came tumbling.

“I could see you all coming from the trees, but she couldn’t. You would have seen her when you came over the hill, so I ran at you. I hoped she’d run. But she was the other one shooting at you. She never could back down from a fight.”

“You love her.”

The Crow’s voice was hoarse. Jon couldn’t quite read the emotions playing on his face.

But he nodded. “Yes. Yes, I love her.”

Benjen let out a long, shuddering breath. “You sound well matched. A woman who’s strong, who can fight, is a wonderful thing. I am...truly sorry for taking you from her.”

Jon studied Benjen’s expression. Grief, regret, heartache, guilt.

 _I have to say it now._ He realized. _I have to say it now, or I’ll never say it at all._

“Let me go home to her.”

Benjen looked up sharply.

“Boy-”

“My leg is nearly healed, I can move more quickly than before. You can tell the other Crow I ran off in the night.”

“Boy, I can’t.”

“He won’t care that I’m gone, he’ll be glad to see the back of me.”

“Boy, I have to take you to Castle Black.”

Jon paused, frustrated.

“Why?”

Benjen sat up, eyes becoming hard.

“I am a man of the Nights Watch, and I-”

“I’m not actually that useful to your Watch anymore,” Jon cut in. “The big group of Free Folk you were tracking has likely long moved on, so I can’t tell you where they are. And I’ve already said everything I know about hunting the dead and the ice gods. I’ve got no more information to give you.”

Benjen ignored this. “I have to take you back to the Castle.”

“Why?”

“I just do!” the Crow said harshly.

Jon seethed. Why was he so set on keeping Jon? _Why wouldn’t this man just set him free?_

“Are you my father?” The words tore themselves from Jon’s mouth.

Benjen’s eyes blew wide, wild. He hadn’t expected that.

“Jon-”

“Are you my father? Is that why you won’t let me go?”

“Jon, it’s not-”

“You looked at me, in the woods, all those moons ago. Saw something in my face.”

“I can explain-”

“You kept me alive. Didn’t torture me. Didn’t tell the Crows we’d met before.”

“I-”

“We look the same.”

Benjen seemed to deflate at this. He took a long, low breath.

He got to his feet and walked over to Jon. He crouched by Jon’s bedroll, put a hand under his chin, tilted Jon’s face a little towards the firelight.

Benjen stared into Jon’s eyes. There were true tears on Benjen's cheeks now. He seemed again to see something in Jon’s face.

 _Is it family?_ Jon wondered. _Is that what he sees?_

“We do,” Benjen said, voice a whisper. “We do look the same.”

Jon couldn’t breathe.

Benjen dropped his hand, dropped his eyes.

“I’m not your father.”

Jon’s breath left him slowly. Benjen shifted, moved from his crouch to sit beside Jon. He looked off to the horizon.

Jon had been so afraid of being southern born. He’d spent most of his life hating Crows. Yet strangely, he found himself disappointed.

It wouldn’t have been the worst thing, if Benjen had been his father. Jon had almost found himself liking the idea.

Benjen’s breath fogged in the air. He spoke again.

“However we’re not...nothing to each other.”

Jon looked up at him.

“What do you mean?”

Benjen ran a hand through his hair.

“I don’t quite know how to put it. I thought I’d have more time to think what to say. It’s...hard.”

Jon’s eyebrows drew together. “What’s so hard about the truth?”

Benjen laughed again, a sad little thing that seemed to freeze in the night air.

Jon didn’t understand the joke.

Benjen looked toward the fire, studied the sparks.

“What we are to each other is...dangerous. Especially at the Wall. And south of the Wall. If I tell you what we are to each other and someone finds out, it would be dangerous for us there.”

Jon considered this. He had very little idea of what Benjen meant.

But there seemed to be a solution. An obvious solution. One Jon couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of before.

“So don’t go to the Wall then. Come with me, North.”

Benjen’s head turned slowly.

“What?”

“You said yourself, there’s danger for you and me at the Wall. So don’t go there. Come home with me.”

Benjen swallowed slowly. He seemed at a bit of a loss.

“To be clear, you are asking me to desert the Watch? And what...join the Wildlings?”

“Plenty of Crows come fly free with us, you wouldn’t be the first.”

Benjen’s eyes were growing hard. When he spoke, his words were low, clipped.

“Boy, I know we’ve been friendly these past weeks. But I am a Man of the Night's Watch. I’ve been ranging past the Wall near twenty years. Do you have any idea how many Wildlings I’ve killed?”

At these words, Jon felt ice run through his blood.

He looked at Benjen then, at his black cloak and black gloves and black boots. And he remembered, _this was a Crow._

“I’m not just a ranger, I’m First Ranger. There’s plenty among the Wildlings who’d recognize my name or my face and stick a spear between my ribs.”

Jon couldn’t speak. He just kept staring at the Crow. 

“Besides,” the Crow continued. “I took a sacred vow, to be the shield that protects the realms of men-”

At this, fire swept through Jon, forcing the ice away and molding him into something angrier.

“So we aren’t men then?! It’s as you said the other night, we’re not worthy of your precious protection? You’d rather just kill us all, or let the ice gods do it!”

“Jon-”

“I’m glad you’re not my father! I’d rather be dead than be blood of a Crow!”

The Crow said nothing, but his eyes softened and he looked lost and sorrowful, and suddenly the Crow looked like Benjen again.

“Jon,” he started, voice quiet. “I did not mean you deserve death. That you aren’t men. I simply meant that I’ve been fighting your people so long that I’d never be welcome among you.”

Jon was quiet as he considered this. The silence stretched for several moments, then-

“You’d be welcome,” Jon promised fiercely. “Things are different now, with the ice gods. If you swore to help us, swore to protect us, swore to fight with us, we’d welcome you.”

Benjen stared at the horizon again.

“I couldn’t,” he said finally.

“You could,” Jon countered. “If this keeps happening, we’ll need all the help we can find.”

“I took vows,” Benjen said again.

“So keep those vows by protecting us too.”

Benjen was still shaking his head. Jon had to say something to open him to this idea.

“Maybe we could make a deal with the Watch. Share information, learn how to fight these things together. You could come back with me and talk to the clans, see if we could all make an agreement.”

Truthfully, Jon thought this wouldn’t work. He doubted the Free Folk would ever work with the Crows. Everyone knew the men in black couldn’t be trusted.

But something behind Benjen’s eyes sparked, and Jon knew he’d caught his interest. Knew he’d said the right thing.

“That is...an interesting thought,” Benjen said simply, a hand coming up to play with his hair.

 _If I can get him to agree to come with me, I can work on him during the journey._ Jon thought. _Talk to him. Get him to truly come to our side._

Despite his harsh words a few minutes before, despite the black he wore, despite the blood he had spilt in the past, Jon was suddenly certain. Certain that such a man didn’t belong with the Crows.

Jon could see Benjen in furs with braided hair, a battle axe at his side. _He’d be good at being Free Folk._

“Let me think on this,” Benjen was saying. “If this really is the old enemies of legend returned, we might need unexpected allies.”

Jon nodded. “Of course.”

They said their goodnights and Jon, for once, felt warm in his bedroll.

_Benjen will leave. Benjen will leave with me and take me home. I know it._

* * *

The next day felt heavy with possibility.

Jon kept meeting Benjen’s eyes in silent conspiracy. Kept sending him small questioning smiles as Benjen led the horse, as they collected firewood, as they cooked.

_Will you leave with me?_

And Benjen seemed to be actually considering it. He looked thoughtful, nervous. But his smiles to Jon were fond, and something danced behind his eyes when Jon met them.

_He’s going to do it. He’s actually going to run with me._

The other Crow, Ryon or whatever the hell his name was, might as well not even have existed. Jon had never felt less threatened by this angry, irrelevant man.

 _I’ll be free of you soon. Benjen and I will be free of you soon_.

Jon was practically vibrating as he set up camp for the evening, as he lit the fire. He couldn’t wait to continue his discussion with Benjen, see if they’d go, _when_ they’d go.

Jon could barely bring himself to sleep that night, but he forced himself to grab some rest during Benjen’s watch. It would be good to be well rested if Benjen decided to run with him. 

He managed to calm the excitement coursing through his body, and gave himself to sleep.

* * *

_The wolf was padding through the forest. Two friends by his side, the giant man and his other’s mate. They moved quickly, his nose trying to grab an important scen-_

A sudden grab at Jon’s throat made him wake suddenly.

A black gloved hand was over his mouth. For a moment, Jon thought it was Benjen, coming to steal him away in the night.

But the moon was too high in the sky. And the hand over his mouth was too bruising, too angry.

Jon felt cold steel press against his neck, drawing a long thin line of blood.

“I told you not to talk to us, you nasty little beast.”


	21. Blood

The knife pressed harder, harder. Jon could feel beads of blood welling up, dripping down.

He tried to struggle, but the hand at his mouth, the hand at his shoulders, held tight.

“I told you Benjen didn’t need to hear your nonsense Wildling speak.” The Crow’s voice rasped and stank in Jon’s ears. “Yet you ignored me. A thing like you should know to listen to your betters.”

The knife was cutting deeper, deeper. Jon brought his hands up, scratched at the Crow’s arms, tried to loosen the hold.

“You’ve got him all turned around. It’s clear as day why. Lots of men forget their honor, but I never thought Benjen Stark himself would father some beast bastard.”

_Benjen Stark?_

But Jon couldn’t dwell on this, for the blade bit at his throat again and drove all thoughts from his mind.

“If someone like him, First Ranger from an old House, falls, loses his honor, runs off to join you savages, it’ll be bad for the Watch. Every two bit steward will think they can fuck off too.”

The Crow bent somehow even closer. Jon’s hands moved, grasped in the dirt and snow around him, grabbing for something, _anything._

“But once you're gone, once I tell him you tried to run off in the night and I had to carve your throat from ear to ear, he’ll move on. Forget this ever happened. Dedicate himself to the Watch again.”

The Crow was spitting, whispering into Jon’s ears.

“So goodbye, little beast.”

Jon’s hand closed around a small rock. _That’ll do._

Jon swung his arm up and brought the rock down on the Crow’s head.

The man swore and staggered, but still managed to draw the blade across Jon’s throat. Pain bubbled up, excruciating.

Jon hit the Crow again. The rock hit his skull with a sickening crack.

The Crow’s hold broke.

Jon pushed himself to his knees and turned. With one hand, he hit the Crow over the head, again and again and again.

With the other, he tried to hold his ruined throat together, wetness seeping through his fingers.

The Crow finally went limp. _Is that enough? Is he dead?_ Jon couldn’t tell, his vision was blurring at the edges.

_Run. I need to run._

Jon forced himself to his feet. He half stumbled across the ground, dizzy, disoriented.

His still healing leg could barely hold his weight. Blood wept from the gash at his throat.

Blackness was encroaching. The wood grew darker.

He pushed himself forward, forward.

His breathing grew more and more labored. He could barely see.

There was a crash, an angry roar behind him. Jon turned.

The Crow was there. His face was red with anger, red with blood.

Jon’s grip closed tight around his sharp rock, the only weapon he had.

The Crow was saying something, screaming something. Jon couldn’t hear him. He was dizzy. Blood was rushing to his ears.

The Crow lunged at him with both hands extended, and though Jon wasn’t in fighting shape, but still he hit and struggled and clawed. His mind could barely grasp what was happening. He only registered pain, a knife biting at his shoulders.

He grabbed the hilt, forced it back. Heard a scream that wasn’t his own.

Yet still the Crow was fighting, fighting, and Jon staggered on his feet, unsure how long he’d last. _If I’m to die, I’ll take this fucking Crow with me._

Gods there was so much blood.

Jon’s legs gave out from under him, the darkness tugged at the edge of his eyes, and the Crow stood over him with an awful grin.

Jon thought this might be it. _I wish Ygritte was here. I wish Mance was here._

A glint at the corner of his eye.

The knife had fallen to the snow, and Jon lunged for it. So did the Crow, and he got to it first.

The Crow closed the knife in his hand and that horrible bloody face loomed over Jon with an awful laugh.

A blade exploded through the Crow’s chest. Red soaked the snow.

The man looked down, surprised, before falling.

There was a shape above him. Jon tried to make it out, his sight fading.

It was Benjen. He stood above Jon, red sword in his hand.

He looked afraid.

He was shouting Jon’s name from far away. Jon fell into darkness.

* * *

For a long time, Jon had no sense of where he was.

Sometimes he’d hear the hooves of a horse at full gallop, the rush of the wind. He’d slit his eyes open and see snow and ice racing past, and a massive cold line swallowing the horizon. He'd feel a warm bedroll at night and hear whispered sorrowful apologies from a kind voice.

Other times he walked on four paws with Tormund and Ygritte as they hunted through the wood, tracked hoofprints and dead campfires. His nose was to the ground, and always he urged them _faster, faster._ They always seemed to be a step behind.

And then there were stranger dreams, dreams of things long past and far away, things that had never happened and things that never would. He saw a pair of lovers under the branches of a weirwood tree, and a woman screaming in bed. He saw stags and dragons and wolves.

He lived in dreams for an eternity.

* * *

_He turned and saw himself, but not, in tailored clothes with colors he’d never seen the like of, gold at his wrists, his neck, his head. Turned again and here was another Jon, in fine furs and steel armor with a long sword at his side. Turned again and there he was in cold Crow colors, looking like a childhood nightmare. These shades smiled and extended their hands. Jon spat at their feet and ran away._

_He ran, rounded a corner, and found himself again in a place he’d been only in dreams, where grey towers touched the sky. Jon looked up. A crying boy with curled legs sat on a wall. A wolf was sleeping at his side._

_Jon felt a twinge of sympathy. He walked to the boy, found his voice. “Are you alright?”_

_The boy looked up sharply. His eyes locked on Jon._

_“You. Who are you?”_

_The eyes bore into Jon, seemed to grow larger and larger, and something in them turned Jon inside out and brought him back to the world._

* * *

Jon woke with a sudden choked gasp.

He tried to breathe, soothe his quick beating heart.

He didn’t know where he was.

Pain curled around his neck, his leg, his shoulder. He brought a hand to his wounds; they’d been wrapped.

His bloody furs were gone. In their place was a thin shirt, thin breeches. He’d never worn clothes like this. He shivered in the cold.

He was on a strange bed of woven cloth set off the ground by a heavy wooden frame.

He looked about the room. A whole row of those strange beds. Empty beds.

Jon had never been in a room this large. It was twice the size of the longhouse where the clan held council.

Everything about this place was strange.

_Oh gods, where am I?_

A hollow dread was seizing Jon’s stomach. A suspicion was starting to form. He hoped against hope that he was wrong.

He forced through the pain and weakly tried to get up, find a door, a way out.

It was then that he noticed the cold weight at his wrist.

Jon looked down dreading, knowing what he’d see.

His wrist was shackled to the bed, connected by a heavy iron chain.

* * *

Despite his pain, his exhaustion, Jon pulled at the chain until his wrist was bloody, until the thick wood started to crack and splinter.

In his panic, Jon was simply an animal in a trap. He had no plan, no thought, except _get out get out get out!_

The noise of the chain clanking against the wood hammered against Jon’s skull. _How much longer until I can break it?_

“Boy, what are you doing?”

Jon heard an old rusted voice behind him. He didn’t look up, didn’t stop.

“There are hundreds of men between you and any kind of escape, and I’d prefer you didn’t injure yourself further. After all, I’ll be the one treating you."

Jon growled in frustration, whipped around to face the voice. An ancient man stood there, strangely dressed.

He wore black.

“Where am I?” Jon rasped, words scraping through his injured throat.

“Castle Black,” the old man replied, and the world dropped from beneath Jon’s feet. _No._

Free Folk who came here never made it out alive.

Jon turned to pull at his chain again, even more frantically.

The old man was still talking, but Jon didn’t hear him.

“...lucky that the cut across your throat was not too deep. Your vocal cords are intact. You have lost a lot of blood, however.”

There was another crack in the wood, and Jon pulled harder.

“...amazing that you managed to survive such an attack. We all thought the White Walkers dead and gone for thousands of years. If I hadn’t heard it from Benjen himself-”

Jon stopped. He turned.

“Benjen? Benjen brought me here?” His voice was made even more ragged by anger.

The old man simply nodded. “Rode in with you a few days past.”

_Benjen brought me here._

“Some of the Brothers were shocked of course that he rode in with you, but he assures us you have important information for the Watch. And Benjen Stark’s word is well valued here.”

_Benjen Stark._

Jon felt dead. Felt ruined. Felt like the dimmest idiot that had ever lived.

_How could I have trusted him?_

He turned and pulled at the chain again.

“Boy, if you keep doing that, I’ll simply have to order you to be strapped to the bed.”

“Shut up!” Jon rasped. There were hot tears stinging at his cheeks. Blood was running down his wrists, staining the thin cloth at his sleeves.

Faintly, Jon heard footsteps, more people entering the room.

Weak though he was, it took four Crows to strap Jon down.

* * *

Benjen arrived not too long after they’d finished. Guilt was written on his face, but Jon turned his head and refused to look at him.

Benjen’s footsteps came to a stop by Jon’s bedside. Jon heard the scrape of a chair on the stone floor and the creak of wood as Benjen sat.

It was a long moment before Benjen started speaking.

“I’m sure that it was a shock to you when you woke up here,” he began stiffly. “I’m sorry they chained you, the Lord Commander insisted.”

Jon said nothing.

“And I’m sorry I wasn’t here to explain when you woke up. I was in the middle of a long report. They didn’t tell me you’d awoken until after I’d left.”

He said nothing. There was nothing to say to this Crow.

Jon heard a long, shuddering sigh.

“Jon, I’m sorry. Truly I am,” Benjen said in a rush of emotion. “Your throat was open, you were losing blood. I can treat minor wounds, but I’m no true healer. All of your Wildling healers, your wise women, have fled somewhere. There was no other option. If I hadn’t rode hard for the Wall, you’d be dead.”

 _I’d rather be dead._ Jon thought. But he wouldn’t say it aloud. He wouldn’t give the Crow the satisfaction of his voice.

“I promise, you won’t be here long. The Lord Commander is concerned by my report, and I am certain in the face of the threat of the dead I can convince him to parlay with your people. And when that happens, I’ll be able to help you. As soon as I return I -”

“You’re leaving?” Jon turned his head quickly, anger finally driving him to speak. Benjen winced at the rasp in his voice. “You say you want to help me, but you’re leaving me here alone?”

Benjen’s voice was quick, insistent. Jon hated the sound of it.

“The Lord Commander wants me to give my report to the commanders at the other castles. They know me, trust me. It’s the quickest way to make them understand, the quickest way to ensure their willingness to speak with your people. The journey is easy, just a ride along the base of the Wall. I’ll be back quickly.”

Jon turned away again.

“Jon, the Night’s Watch treats their prisoners, brings them back to full health before making any decisions. And Maester Aemon assures me it’ll be some time before you’ll be healed. I’ll be back before you’ve been released from the infirmary. And Maester Aemon will not mistreat you here, nor allow others to mistreat you. You’ll never be a prisone-”

Benjen halted as he looked at Jon’s arms and legs, strapped to the bed.

“Well at least, you’ll never have to spend time in a cell.”

Jon felt his blood boiling under his skin.

“Jon, this situation, it’s not what either of us wanted-”

“Don’t lie,” Jon spat. “You wanted me here from the start. Kept telling the other Crows so.”

“At first, yes, I did want to bring you back here with me. But having you here in chains...I have never wanted such a thing.”

Jon huffed in disbelief.

“Truly, when I first learned of our...connection I was asked to retrieve you. And I agreed, because I’d heard the rumors of cruel things rising beyond the Wall. But there was never time to plan, you sprang upon us so quickly and I find myself at a loss-”

“I should have cut both your throats in the woods,” Jon whispered, turning back to look Benjen in the eye. “I wish I’d cut your throat and run.”

They stared at each other. Neither spoke.

“You don’t wish to hear my excuses,” Benjen finally sighed. “Well know this. I will not let you remain a prisoner here. I promise, I will not abandon you.”

Jon didn’t listen. He’d learned, learned not to listen to a Crow’s lies.

Benjen waited for some response, any response. When none came, he stood.

“We’ll speak when I return,” he sighed. “You can trust me.”

He started to walk from the room. Jon stared at his retreating back.

“You never told me,” he called through his ruined throat.

Benjen’s footsteps stopped.

“Told you what?”

“That you were a Stark.”

Jon’s glare was accusing, furious, cold.

The Crow just stood, saying nothing. After a long moment, he turned away.

Jon watched him go. In his mind’s eye he saw Benjen Stark lying dead, his blood red on the snow.

* * *

He seldom spoke in the next few weeks. There was no one to speak to. The old maester tried, sometimes, to engage Jon in idle talk. But Jon had no more wish to talk to Crows.

Even his dreams in Ghost were limited, scattered, as if the wolf couldn't truly find him in this place.

He was left to dreamless sleep, to feeling his skin knit itself back together, to silence and anger.

And to listening.

He listened to the Crows that came to speak to the maester, listened to the cold boys in black that passed his bed curiously.

And soon, they were all saying the same thing.

Benjen Stark had never arrived at the other Crow castles. No one knew where he’d gone.


	22. Interlude - Tyrion

The Wildling was intriguing.

Tyrion had enjoyed his first week at Castle Black. The Wall truly was a marvel, a feat of engineering. It certainly earned its place as one of the wonders of the world, one Tyrion was glad he’d been able to see it in his lifetime.

And truthfully, he liked the company of many of the Black Brothers. For example, there was excellent conversation to be had with Yoren, who had traveled the whole of the continent and knew how to enjoy a laugh.

Lord Commander Mormont, of whom Tyrion was an honored guest, certainly knew how to extend his hospitality. Tyrion had always heard the Wall to be a hard place, a glorified prison. But as Mormont’s guest he enjoyed spiced ciders and wolfsberry tarts and succulent crablegs freshly caught and shipped from Eastwatch.

Tyrion suspected this warm welcome was mostly due to his proximity to the King. The Lord Commander clearly hoped Tyrion would convince his boorish brother in law to send more men to the Wall. In which case, the dear old man had vastly overestimated King Robert’s affection for his wife’s family. Robert would sooner give up his throne to a Targaryen than listen to anything _the imp_ had to say.

Still, Tyrion would savor the food and mead and cider while he could. And he did have a certain respect for Lord Commander Mormont and the work he did here. He shaped criminals and outcasts into fighters, gave them a sort of purpose. And they were better men for it. Most of the the Black Brothers had been quite kind, laughing mightily at Tyrion’s japes and jokes.

There were a few who despised his very presence. Ser Allister Thorne seemed to have a permanent sneer on his face, and self-serious Benjen Stark took Tyrion’s gentle teasing as a personal affront to his honor. But in truth, that made the teasing much more fun. Tyrion had enjoyed baiting him.

So yes, Tyrion had quite liked his first week at the Wall. But as one week slowly became two weeks, three weeks, a month, Tyrion found himself a bit bored. The Wall’s immense height had lost its novelty, the company became a bit stale, and Tyrion found himself missing good Dornish wine. And dear gods, the constant penetrating cold was truly beginning to bend his senses.

He did find some warmth and good reading in Castle Black’s immense library. But it was crumbling more than bit and seemed rarely attended. 

Tyrion was looking forward to his journey home. He planned to share the road with Yoren when he traveled back to the capital, and Tyrion counted the moments until their departure arrived. Mormont kept trying to trap him in a black coat, and Tyrion was worried if he stayed too long, the old man might manage to do it.

But then Benjen Stark rode back into Castle Black like demons from all seven hells were at his back, a blood soaked Wildling over his saddle and a wild story at his lips. And the monotony of the last few weeks had broken into true excitement.

Stark claimed he’d seen the dead rise, claimed old ice monsters of legend were returning. Tyrion honestly had trouble taking this story seriously. It sounded, well, truly mad. Like something out of a child’s tale. The cold really did drive men to insanity it seemed.

He’d teased Stark about finding giant ice spiders in the snow. If the tall man’s expression had been anything to go by, Tyrion was lucky to have escaped that conversation with his head. He chuckled at the memory.

The bizarre arrival had set off a flurry of activity in the castle. People whispered, told old stories they’d heard at their nursemaid’s knees. The officers were all offering outlandish battle plans on how to fight dead things if they did, in fact, exist. And the Lord Commander grew quite serious. Tyrion’s departure was delayed a few days more so he could fully update the King when he returned to the capital. Which again, was doubtful to happen, but seemed to ease old Mormont’s mind a bit.

Most of all, people wanted to see the Wildling. Many of the men in this castle had never spent time beyond the Wall, never actually met the fabled tribesmen the Watch was dedicated to fighting. There was constant hushed chatter about this fearsome creature. Rumor had it that he’d broken clean through the iron chain that held him and had to be forced down by twelve men, that he didn’t speak a word but growled and hissed, that he’d bitten Maester Aemon’s ear clean off.

The rumors doubled in both number and color after Benjen went missing. He seemed to have, mysteriously, rode off into the edge of the Haunted Forest instead of straight for the Shadow Tower, and had vanished. There were all sorts of fanciful conspiracies; how this wicked wild thing had enchanted Benjen to make him forget his vows, how he was in league with woods witches, how he was a warg from the old tales and seized control of Benjen’s horse. The theories of _why_ were increasingly bizarre as well, ranging from offering Benjen as a blood sacrifice for the Old Gods to luring Benjen as the next meal for his fellow savages to feast upon.

Tyrion was looking at this truly terrible magic cannibal beast now, with some amusement. For all the excitement, all the stories, this creature looked for all the world like a miserable boy.

True, he was strapped down to the bed, so perhaps he did contain a touch of this wildness the Brothers spoke of. But his beard was still light, there was a slight lingering childhood chubbiness to his cheeks, and his face carried a petulant expression common to those under twenty who felt they’d been terribly wronged.

Which, to be fair, he was a prisoner. But that was beside the point.

This entire situation was perfect proof of an opinion Tyrion had long held. The mystical terrible Wildlings the North seemed to hold up as the greatest threat to human existence were, in fact, nothing but ordinary people wrapped in myth.

When he was a boy, Tyrion might have enjoyed the odd story about giants and wargs and White Walkers. But stories is all they were.

Yet, the boy was still interesting. For Tyrion strongly suspected there was _another_ reason Benjen Stark had deposited him at Castle Black then left in a panicked hurry. This reason had also been whispered about, but was not quite as popular yet among the Brothers.

Wild ancient magic was, after all, much more exciting than common bastardry.

Riding in together, two pale men of a height with each other with long dark hair and matching strong jaws, it was all but obvious. Impossible _not_ to note their similarities, even if the boy had been unconscious.

And now, looking at him, mostly awake with a bit of his color regained, it was even more unmistakeable. Tyrion would bet a night with the best whore in Westeros that this boy was a Stark bastard.

The only question was, whose? The Stark who swore vows to marriage, or the Stark who swore vows to the Wall?

There had been rumors for years that Ned Stark had given a bastard to the Wall. And sure enough, when Tyrion looked back through old records of babes held at Castle Black, he’d quickly found a Jon Snow, given to the Watch by Ned Stark. Supposedly he’d been found “orphaned in a village.” A clumsy cover story, truth be told. The kind of cover story that would be used by someone unused to having their integrity questioned. It would fit Ned Stark perfectly.

That child was supposedly dead, but the cause had not been noted. It was possible, probable even, that the boy had been stolen or simply run himself. Gods knew if Tyrion had been faced with an entire childhood at the Wall, he would have fled for any exit he could find. So yes, Eddard Stark was the most likely candidate.

But the boy did _so_ look like Benjen. And there was something deliciously hilarious about the idea of a man so grave-minded about the important eternal mission of the Nights Watch going off in the dark to fuck a child into a Wildling woman.

Tyrion grinned a bit. He could not help it. He knew the boy’s situation was truly not funny. He was a prisoner in an enemy castle after all. But the Starks were so serious about vows and honor. It was deeply refreshing to see evidence that they too were human.

Tyrion was alone with the boy, the Maester off fiddling somewhere. Tyrion had noted the old man still had both his ears.

There were guards at the doors, but they were unused to dealing with Lords and Tyrion had easily convinced them he had permission to be there. Which he...technically did not. But still. Tyrion was leaving soon. He would not squander his chance to speak to not only a so-called fearsome Wildling of legend, but a rare stain on House Stark’s honor. The situation was entirely too intriguing to pass up.

The boy was looking adamantly at the side of his pillow, purposefully not seeing Tyrion. Maester Aemon had told Tyrion that the boy refused to acknowledge anyone.

He’d have to provoke the boy into speaking.

“I heard there was a vicious Wildling in this infirmary,” Tyrion began loudly.

Not even a blink to indicate he’d been heard.

“All sorts of nasty stories are spreading in the Castle. I’ve even heard the lad’s a cannibal. So I’ve come to display to you that I’d make a poor dinner. As you can see, you’d barely pass an hour before you’d need another meal.”

Tyrion thought he saw the boy’s jaw grit slightly, but otherwise nothing. So, this boy had both the Stark look _and_ the Stark lack of humor.

Perhaps a bit of meanness might draw the boy out.

“Others are saying that he, like all Wildlings, is too stupid to speak the common ton-”

Before he’d even finished the sentence the boy had whipped his head around.

“We’re not stupid!” he hissed with gritted teeth.

Tyrion smiled. A reaction at last! “Are you sure? Because I’ve heard nearly no one in this castle has heard you speak.”

The boy actually growled at this. He strained angry fists against his bindings.

“No one wants to talk to me. If you come closer to the bed, I’ll show you why.”

Ah, a barely veiled threat of violence! Yet another Stark trait!

Still, it would unproductive if this chat continued to go downhill so quickly. Tyrion tried to put on his most reasonable face. “Well, I want to talk to you. So why deny me the pleasure of your conversation?”

“Don’t want to talk to any Crows,” the boy glowered, settling his head back into his bedsheets.

It takes Tyrion a moment to puzzle out the boy’s meaning. When he does, he grins.

“Is that what you call the Black Brothers? Well then, good thing that I am no Crow, so you can converse with me.”

The boy seemed to truly look at him for the first time, perhaps finally registering that he was both not wearing black nor the kind of man likely to wield a sword.

“I must say,” Tyrion continued. “'Crows' is a fitting word. In those thick black coats perched on the Wall, they do look like a giant flock of birds with ruffled feathers.”

The boy nearly, nearly, smiles. Or at least the muscles at the sides of his mouth twitch a bit. Tyrion counts it as a victory.

“So boy. How do you find Castle Black so far? I expect from your perspective the hospitality leaves something to be desired.”

The boy’s expression crumpled.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said softly. “They’ll kill me soon anyway.”

This was the sort of statement it was immensely difficult to form a response to.

“Will they?” said Tyrion, after a silence that lasted a moment too long.

“Any Free Folk that goes in here doesn’t come out alive.”

Tyrion was quite interested in the term “Free Folk.” It sounded like a title with some ideology behind it. However, he doubted the boy would be up for his questions with the weight of imminent death on his mind.

And truthfully, Tyrion didn’t think the Watch would kill him. Especially not if he truly was a Stark bastard. He should try to set the boy’s mind at ease so they could speak.

He took a few cautious steps forward.

“Boy, listen. I know you’ve likely been told terrible stories all your life about the Night’s Watch and terrible Crows-”

“Not just stories,” the boy cut in loudly, insistently. “I’ve seen people killed by them. I’ve seen people who came into this castle and were never seen again. They’re going to kill me.”

Tyrion paused again. He leaned forward conspiratorially, and lowered his voice a touch so that the guards would not hear.

“Boy, do you want to know a secret about the Nights Watch?”

He just huffed. Tyrion took this as permission to continue.

“The Nights Watch is a shadow of what it once was. Undermanned, made up more of thieves and rapers forced into service than knights or fighters. The experienced warriors who do find themselves here have generally disgraced themselves or made some terrible error. Do you know what that means?”

Clearly, he didn’t. He just stared at Tyrion.

A bit slow on the uptake. It was maddening how much Stark was in this boy.

“It means that they can be a bit poor at strategy. Lot of different viewpoints, many from people who don’t quite know what they’re talking about, butting heads constantly. There are some clear thinkers here, the Lord Commander for one. But to my eyes, the Watch as a whole seems a bit chaotic and indecisive, especially in times of great uncertainty. And when Benjen Stark rode in with you and a mad story about the dead coming back to life...well that kicked off a time of great uncertainty.”

The boy was listening now, a sharp focus in his eye that Tyrion had not expected.

“There are many possibilities here. Perhaps they’ll be too afraid to lose a potential informant. Perhaps with Benjen gone they will be unwilling to dishonor his final request to keep you alive. Perhaps they will simply have no idea what to do with you and will not want to think on it in the face of larger problems. Now, I can not read the future, they might truly kill you. But it is by no means inevitable. Why, I can easily see the Brothers throwing you in a disused cell instead until they come up with some sort of plan.”

“How is that any better?” There was anger in the boy’s voice, but it was a curious anger. “Leaving me to rot in some cell?”

“Because it gives you _time_ boy. Time to change your position, improve your circumstances, plot for something better. As long as you’re alive and you have time, you have a chance.”

The boy seemed to actually consider this advice. A muted sort of hope was sparking behind his eyes.

“Confusion and chaos,” he said quietly.

Tyrion was a tad thrown by this non-sequitur. “Pardon?”

The boy seemed to come back to himself.

“Just something friends used to say about dealing with Crows. And Ma--and my father used to say the Crows aren’t as smart as they think they are.”

 _My father._ Well that was a disappointing phrase. Perhaps this boy was not a bastard after all. Though perhaps he could be speaking of some sort of adoptive father. Tyrion did not know Wildling custom.

“Well, your father sounds like an interesting man. Now, I will say it’s important not to underestimate your opponents. But keep your mind open to new possibilities. And never, never succumb to thoughts of the supposed inevitability of your own death. That leeches the hope from you. And you need hope to keep going, keep planning.”

The boy suddenly looked at Tyrion sharply.

“Why are you telling me this? You’re a kneeler, kneelers hate us. Don’t you want the Crows to kill me?”

A fair question. Despite his situation, the boy could keep a clear head. Tyrion found himself almost impressed.

“Perhaps I should wish for your death. You are a vicious Wildling after all. But, given your injuries and your miserable situation, you seem quite broken at the moment. And I have great sympathy for broken things, child.”

“I’m not a child,” the boy protested.

“Of course not. Now, you mentioned something about the Free Folk earlier. I’ve not heard that term before. I would be interested to hear about it.”

And so the boy told Tyrion about the wickedness of kings and how the Free Folk refused to kneel to any man they didn’t choose. Tyrion decided not to mention his status after hearing the boy go on about “fat southern lords” for several minutes. But the boy’s sheer distaste for inferior kings was amusing; it was almost as if the Wildling had met Robert personally.

These “Free Folk” had an intriguing philosophy to be sure. Primitive, but passionate. Tyrion decided he would seek out reading about cultures beyond the Wall as soon as he returned home.

Eventually, the guards at the door began to get restless, perhaps finally suspecting Tyrion should not be here. One of them called out across the large room, asking how much longer Tyrion would be.

Best not to press his luck. It was time to go.

“Well, I certainly enjoyed my conversation with you boy. But it seems I must leave. I don’t expect we’ll see each other again, so let me just say, in all earnestness, good luck.”

The boy almost looked disappointed to see him go. He looked as stoic and serious as someone strapped down to a bed could manage.

Tyrion looked again at the boy’s eyes then, and his jaw, and his hair. And he had to _know._

This might confuse or spook the boy a bit, but he’d take the chance.

He leant to the boy, voice quiet.

“It was wonderful to meet you, Jon.”

Shock filled the boy’s eyes. He stammered. “That's...I'm...not...”

_His name is Jon. He’s Ned Stark’s bastard. I was right._

Under his inner delight, Tyrion felt a bit guilty for startling the boy, and tried to soothe him. “Don’t worry. I have my sources, but none of them are Crows. I won’t tell them your name, boy.”

He still looked truly bewildered, almost afraid. Tyrion had perhaps gone too far. But that wasn’t to be helped now.

Tyrion patted _Jon_ on one constricted arm.

“Remember to have hope, my boy. Nothing is inevitable.”

Tyrion turned and left the room. The guards seemed relieved once he stepped through the doors.

Perhaps it had been cruel to drop that on the boy, but Tyrion still felt nearly giddy with this new information. Honorable, serious, dour Ned Stark had a bastard he’d abandoned at the Wall.

And that bastard had grown to be a Wildling. The Warden of the North, Hand of the King, had a Wildling bastard.

Yes, this had been an excellent trip to the Wall.


	23. Interlude - Varys

It was incredible, Varys mused, how much people trusted wax seals.

Wax was easily melted, reformed, reshaped. Copying the stamp of a castle’s sigil was laughably easy. Yet people trusted the privacy of unbroken seals as if only the gods themselves could cut through wax.

When truly, anyone could read whichever private messages they pleased. So long as they had some basic supplies, a steady hand, and the ear of the right person in the rookery.

Varys, of course, had all three.

Which is how he had come to read this message, sealed with the black wax of the Nights Watch. It was not unusual for King’s Landing to receive correspondence from the Wall. But it _was_ unusual for that correspondence to be personal. And the message on his desk was personal indeed. From Benjen Stark to his brother Eddard, the new Hand of the King. So Varys, of course, intercepted it. It was his duty, as Master of Whisperers, to learn what kind of man the new Hand was.

Especially given what one of his little birds had recently overheard.

Varys read the message again. It was brief, written in a precise and elegant hand befitting of a great Lord’s son.

_A Wilding was captured and brought to the Wall. After reflection, I return to my previous belief that Wildlings belong beyond the Wall. I plan to return him to his people._

Short, somewhat terse, and confusing without context. Why would a Brother of the Night’s watch write his family about a rather mundane occurrence at the Wall? Why would he mention his plans?

It was the sort of message that only made sense if one had been privy to a prior conversation.

And it just so happened, Varys was.

He had nearly thought his little bird was mistaken when they came to him with information from Winterfell. The Starks were a great house, but not a scheming one. They seldom caused worry. He still kept spies in the North’s seat, but they had little to report.

So when he had heard that Benjen, Eddard, and Catelyn Stark had held a secret meeting in Lord Stark’s chambers during the dead of night, Varys was intrigued. And though his bird had only managed to snatch a few words through the walls, those words only left him further intrigued.

The Starks spoke of forcing a Wildling to take the black. They spoke of the old rumors of Eddard Stark’s supposed bastard at the Wall. And most interestingly...they spoke of hunting down lost Targaryens.

This last had truly surprised Varys, an unusual experience for him.

The Starks were the last people in the Seven Kingdoms he expected to be Targaryen loyalists, given that they had been King Robert’s most enthusiastic supporters during the war. And though a blind man could see Eddard was deeply frustrated with the King, he still did not seem the type to betray an old friend.

No, Ned was not trying to unseat Robert. Which forced Varys to explore other explanations.

The one that jumped out was so obvious, he cursed himself for not having seen it before.

Rumors of Ned Stark’s bastard at the Wall began soon after Robert’s Rebellion ended. Ned Stark was not the type to break marriage vows.

After speaking to his little bird, Varys had written Castle Black’s maester for records on all children kept at the Night’s Watch for the past twenty years. And he had indeed found a Jon Snow in the copy Aemon sent along, given up by Ned Stark the very year the rebellion ended. Just the right amount of time after Prince Rhaegar had absconded with Lyanna Stark.

Varys had always found the manner of Lyanna Stark’s death suspicious. A “bed of blood” was entirely too vague. He’d long suspected that perhaps she’d borne a babe with Prince Rhaegar. He had frequently wondered what could have happened to such a child, and always arrived at the most likely conclusion. That it had been murdered by Baratheon and Stark soldiers in the cradle, and they simply chose not to announce it. After all, child-slaying rarely went over well in the songs.

But now it seemed not only did this child survive, it likely still lived, beyond the Wall. One of the people with the strongest claims to the Iron Throne was a Wildling savage and prisoner of the Nights Watch.

It was an intriguing concept.

Varys had to admit, keeping the child beyond the Wall was a brilliant move to ensure its safety. No one would ever look for Targaryen heirs among barbarian tribes. It was so brilliant that Varys highly doubted it was intentional. In fact, it seemed from this letter that Ned Stark was trying to recover the boy.

Likely they had lost track of him, and now Stark wanted to provide the boy with a comfortable life. Well, if they brought him into the Seven Kingdoms, his life could be comfortable, but probably short.

Unless Varys lent his aid.

He stood, went to his cupboard, found a bit of wax and the correct seal.

As Varys sat and began to carefully scrape the old wax from the parchment, he again pondered the current political situation. Robert’s rule could fall apart at any minute. Not only had he put the Crown in deep debt to several of the great houses, he also had a nasty habit of antagonizing those same houses. Many saw him as a fool or a false king.

Nearly every House in the Realm seemed to be plotting some sort of power grab. Tywin Lannister was so open about his plans for domination he seemed half in the Iron Throne already. The Iron Islands and Dorne were both seriously considering revolution. Even the King’s own brothers whispered that he was unfit. Both were making quiet inquires about weapons and ships.

Nothing about Robert’s rule was steady. And this was without even considering that his heirs were all, in truth, illegitimate bastards borne of incest.

Varys shook his head. He could not believe that Queen Cersei and her brother thought themselves subtle.

He found himself missing Jon Arryn, the former Hand, more and more these days. Arryn was a smart man, good at tempering the worst of Robert’s instincts and working around his explicit commands. He was good at ameliorating the interests of the Houses and even managed to improve things for the smallfolk now and again. True, they’d had their differences. But it had been a pleasure ruling alongside him; he was exactly the sort of measured person who should be managing the Realm.

But then he had become a bit too interested in the question of Cersei’s children and found himself dead. So now Varys was forced to work with Eddard Stark.

Not a bad man, to be sure. A good man even. But he had no head for politics. He often managed to provoke Robert instead of calming him. His investigations into Jon Arryn’s demise were shockingly unsubtle and gaining all the wrong sort of attention. Worst of all, he was constantly blinded by _honor._

Honor between houses was...a fine enough virtue. But it was virtually useless in ruling. Maintaining upright courtly honor paled under the importance of keeping the smallfolk fed through winter.

A righteous, bold man like Eddard Stark could not have chosen a worse time to arrive in King’s Landing. The situation at hand required care, cunning, subtlety. Instead, Stark was openly countering the King during council meetings and tearing through the capital resurrecting old feuds.

Varys carefully melted a bit of wax.

Yes, this all could fall apart very quickly. He needed to move fast. Especially if the coming winter was to be as bad as the maesters predicted.

For the millionth time in his life, Varys cursed the entire concept of Kings. Kings were, more often than not, petty cruel and boorish people. They thought they knew best and never truly did, had advisors but failed to listen to them. Their careless actions led to the murder and starvation of innocents, innocents who had so little say over their own fates. Honestly, if Varys truly had his way, there would never be another king in Westeros again.

But this was how things had been done in the Seven Kingdoms for countless generations. A King was the only form of rule the Lord of Westeros would accept.

Varys truly despised magic, but very occasionally he wished he could make these Lord of Westeros all disappear. Start anew. But he doubted even the strange shadowbinders of Asshai could do such a thing.

No, a King was what the Lords wanted, and a King they would have. If Robert should fall, the best way to ensure the people were safe and fed through winter was to install a Targaryen on the Iron Throne. Quickly.

Varys allowed himself a small sigh. What a nightmare.

The way Varys saw it, an ideal king had two important properties.

The first was the right name.

And the Targaryens had that name. They had been the nearly unquestioned rulers of Westeros for centuries. When the Dragons had been on the throne, the great Houses had schemed less, been more willing to accept their place in the hierarchy. Plotting had usually been limited to marriage contracts, not grabs for the Throne itself. The separate kingdoms did not speak of rebelling. Houses had been more willing to work together. There had even been time for what was, theoretically, the main purpose of the great Houses; protecting the smallfolk who worked their lands. It had been stable, secure. Easier to tend to the actual work of governance, under such a name.

If Robert’s rule were to fail, his son’s bastardry revealed, and another Targaryen were to arrive with a claim before the other Houses could get themselves in order, Varys was sure most would accept it. Would see Robert and his rule as a strange hiccup in an otherwise unbroken Targaryen line.

There was however, a problem with House Targaryen. The Targaryens themselves.

Targaryens tended to be quick to anger, violent, impulsive. There was that old saying. _Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin and the world holds its breath to see how it will land. Madness or greatness._

Truthfully, Varys thought the ratio of madness in the Targaryen household was far higher than that quote implied.

For centuries, they had burned people alive as punishment. Aerys had happily brought the practice back and earned his name as the Mad King. Even those considered sane, like Rhaegar, tended to be prone to bizarre whims and bad choices. For example, leaving a wife and trueborn children behind to romance a teenage girl, sparking a rebellion which led to the near extinction of the Targaryen line.

At least they did not posses damned dragons anymore. That was one blessing.

The Targaryens absolutely lacked the second important property of a good king. The valuable ability to _shut up_ once in a while and let expert advisors rule the realm.

When the Targaryens had ruled in Westeros, they had married each other almost exclusively, become ever more obsessed with their own self myth, and practically considered themselves gods. But hopefully, some time in exile had tempered that a bit.

As Varys carefully dripped the wax to match the old seal, he considered the potential claimants.

First, there was Viserys. On paper, the most obvious option. Son of Aerys, clearly in line for the throne, unshakeable claim. Yet every report that had reached his ears suggested that Viserys was absolutely his father’s son. Angry, cruel, selfish. No, Varys would not unleash a man like that upon the common people of the Realm. Viserys would meet an assassin's knife.

Then, there was his younger sister, Daenerys. By all reports, she was kinder, shyer. Listened to her elders. But the Lords of Westeros would be needlessly difficult about a woman making a claim to the Throne.

Illyrio’s boy was an interesting option. The wealthy merchant claimed to be hiding Aegon, heir of Prince Rhaegar. Varys knew this boy was not truly Aegon Targaryen. The real young heir had not survived Lannister knives. But Varys had met Illyrio’s boy, and considered him perhaps the best option. He was a kind boy, polite, caring. He had the right look, and documents could be forged that would convince the noble houses of his name. Best of all, he carried no Targaryen madness in his veins. This boy could be _both,_ a good name and a wise listener. It could be perfect, especially if they could convince Daenerys to marry him, as was grand Targaryen tradition.

Of course, there was a chance that someone could uncover their deception. And if that happened, true wars would spring up between the Houses as they fought for the throne. It could tear the whole continent apart, leave hundreds of thousands dead.

So that was something to consider.

This new option, this Wildling boy, therefore held some appeal. He was a bastard, which was a problem. But bastards were often chosen as heirs if no other heirs were left alive.

There was the _small issue_ of the boy likely being a primitive with no education who, to Varys’s knowledge, hailed from a culture that despised the concept of kingship. But honestly, Varys found that somewhat appealing. It meant the boy could perhaps be molded, shaped.

And Varys had heard vague whispers that said Wildlings were very passionate about their freedoms. He’d heard rumors that they even held public councils with _elections_. It would be refreshing for the smallfolk to be ruled by someone with such an upbringing.

Of course, the boy could also be a murdering raider who ate human flesh. Varys knew almost nothing of the child.

That would have to change.

Spies were hard to come by on the Wall, but not impossible. Varys had looked through the recent list of recruits and seen the name of a singer who once been one of his little birds. Pypar, the name was. He’d get in contact, have the young man feed him information about the Wildling prisoner. See what kind of man this Wildling was.

For this was an interesting option. Not the best option, not even currently the second best option...but someone to keep an eye on. Someone to consider.

Varys pressed his false Nights Watch seal into the wax. He set off to find a servant to deliver it, fresh and unbroken, to Lord Stark.


End file.
